


The Monster That You See

by MonJoh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonJoh/pseuds/MonJoh
Summary: On the eve of beginning his Hogwarts education, eleven-year-old Fen is the victim of a terrifying attack that changes the course of his life and leaves him struggling to adapt to a childhood very different from the one he imagined. (RE-EDITED)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [obscuro_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/obscuro_2018) collection. 



> Many thanks to my betas: Blackamberblack, [bannedfrompencils](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bannedfrompencils/pseuds/bannedfrompencils), and [Purpleyin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyin/pseuds/purpleyin) for making the story originally posted to the Obscuro!Challenge better.

_Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes._

_My childhood spat back out the monster that you see._

~chap 1~

Full moon Tuesday, 21 August, 1956

A stocky little boy, arms laden with shopping, kicked open the wooden door to their farmhouse. The door slammed back against the wall. Behind him, his little sister jumped, nearly dropping her parcel, then their baby brother jolted awake in their mother’s arms and let out a keening cry.

“Fen, you woke the baby.” His mother juggled the infant as she followed her older children into the house, rocking the baby with one arm while levitating several packages through the door with her wand.

“Sorry, Mum.” Fen dumped his load on a metal-backed kitchen chair and dug into one of the bags. He drew out a plain white oblong box but before he could pry the lid off his mother smacked his hand.

“You can play after you’ve put your things away.”

Mrs. Manion shook her head as she followed the family into the kitchen. “Children these days, always in a hurry.” With a flick of her wand she set her own packages on a chair beside the blue Formica table. “I swear I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

“So true,” Fen’s mother sighed.

Fen lifted a set of scales gently from one package and ran a finger along the perfectly balanced brass crossbar. It tipped one way and then back the other.

“Nellie, fetch a jar of pickles from the cellar, then help your brother with his things.” Fen’s mother transfigured her outer robe into an apron which covered the bodice and skirt of her floral patterned dress before setting a pot to boil, bouncing the baby on one hip. “Did you hear about the Grady girl?” she asked the other woman.

“I did and I was horrified, Mary.” Mrs. Manion sat in another chair and patted her hair with one gloved hand. “A girl from good family ending up in _that_ situation and no father in sight. You’d expect it of a muggle-born but her parents were upstanding pureblood wizards. Her father was a Flint, for Merlin’s sake. I blame that Abbott girl he married for raising their daughter with such an appalling lack of morals. One of that family even married a muggle, if you can believe it.”

Fen unpacked the number 2 size cauldron next. It was heavy as he set it on the tabletop and laid out the other items to take upstairs to his room. He eyed the white oblong box with longing. Soon he’d be able to levitate things wherever he needed with a swish of his wand.

His mother shook her head sadly. “I fear for the world our children will inherit. Just last week my Phineas and a few of the men had to run off that half-giant who tried to settle in town. Imagine, the nerve of him pushing his way in amongst decent folk.”

“What are wizards coming to? _Accio_.” Mrs. Manion caught the small hand mirror that jumped from her handbag to her outstretched hand and tucked a strand of brown hair back into her chignon.

Fen’s mother flicked her wand again and set potatoes and carrots peeling before adding a dash of salt to the pot on the stove. “Next we’ll have werewolves wanting to move in amongst us.”

Mrs. Manion’s hand froze. She still held the mirror but her gaze fixed on something beyond her own reflection. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Fen paused in the act of collecting his things to carry upstairs.

His mother caught her breath, one hand going to her heart as she spun to face the other woman. “Em, I’m so sorry. I forgot. That must have been terrible for you.”

Em Manion’s hand shook as she carefully set the mirror on the table, her face pallid. “It was.” Her voice was hoarse. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years. The whole family murdered, bodies so badly mauled they were nigh unrecognizable except for their shoes and hair.”

Fen stared at Mrs. Manion, his precious bundles temporarily forgotten. “You saw the werewolf?”

“Thank Merlin, no. They’re evil creatures.” She shuddered. “But I saw what one of them did to his own family.”

 _His own family_? Fen blinked.

“No one’s safe near them. They’re not human, just rabid beasts who should be locked up, every last one.”

Nellie skipped back into the kitchen carrying a kilner jar in both hands. She held it out to her mother, then squeaked in surprise when Mary crushed her in a hug.

“Mum, you’re squishing me.”

Fen’s mother kissed the top of his sister’s head and let her wiggle away.

He reached for his new wand again. At school, he’d learn to use it to fight monsters like werewolves and then he’d keep his family safe. He swished it in the air in a figure eight pattern, remembering how silver sparks erupted when he tried it in the shop. No evil creature would ever hurt his mother or his sister or even his noisy baby brother as long as he was around.

Mrs. Manion took a breath, then ran a hand through her hair and smoothed her skirt. “I have to get home and get a meal started before my man gets there.” She gathered her parcels with a practiced swish of her wand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mary.”

“Good night, Em.” After the door closed, Fen’s mother lifted the baby to her shoulder, patting its back and crooning as she walked toward the bedroom at the back of the house. “Fen, leave the wand be and finish packing.”

With a heavy sigh, the boy put his new wand back into the box, gathered up a pile of black school robes, and stuck his pointed black hat on top. Excitement bubbled up again at the pile of treasure. It was the first time he had ever owned new robes – well, two out of three were new – and his stomach flip-flopped with elation knowing he would be wearing them _at Hogwarts_. He was finally old enough for school. He would be learning real spells and potions and how to use his wand.

His little sister set the jar of pickles on the counter and stared at the packages Fen had spread across the table. “Can I help?” Her eyes were round as she reached to touch the scales.

He pulled it out of her reach and tucked it inside the cauldron. “That’s too heavy. Here, you can carry these.”

He handed her a pair of imitation dragon-hide gloves, then tucked the telescope beside the scales and piled his robes and hat on top. He carefully lugged the lot upstairs, his sister at his heels.

In the bedroom he shared with his sister, he laid the neatly folded black cloth in the old trunk sitting open beside his bed and smoothed out a wrinkle. The pointed hat, used but in good shape, went on top. He paused a moment to run his finger over the telescope and imagine how he would amaze his teachers and classmates with his knowledge of the stars and moon. Then next year, Nellie would join him at Hogwarts and he would show her around, introduce her to the friends he would make, and help her with homework.

Nellie handed him the gloves before she flopped onto her bed, propped her chin on her hands, and stared at the half-filled, scarred trunk their father had used when he was a student. “When I go to school, I’m gonna have a cat.”

Fen made a face. “You’re not gonna have a cat.” He had wanted an owl, but familiars were not required and his mother had made that embarrassed grimace she wore when they could not afford something.

Arms akimbo, he surveyed his packing. He had memorized the list, and he mentally checked off each item. All was ready. One more week and he would board the train that would take him to Hogwarts.

At that thought, he darted down the stairs again to retrieve the oblong box. He pushed aside the crinkly white paper and ran his fingers along the wood, feeling it quiver at his touch. Fen snatched the wand from its paper nest and darted to the back door.

His mother returned to the kitchen after putting the baby in his crib. “Fen, it’s dinner time. Where d’ you think you’re going?” She put both hands on her hips.

“To visit Eoin. You promised I could show him my wand.”

Eoin had returned from Diagon Alley last week, blue eyes shining as he recounted how many wands he had to try before his final selection.

Fen’s mother looked out the kitchen window, her forehead creased. “It’s late. Supper’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“But you said I could. I won’t be long, I promise I’ll be home in time for supper.” Fen clutched the 10 ¼” length of hawthorn, rigid and straight at the grip with a bend part way and a crooked tip. “Please.” He folded his hands and peered up with his best pleading expression.

Her features relaxed into an indulgent sigh. “Okay.” As he flung open the door she called, “But you come right back. You can’t be out after dark.”

He shouted his agreement as he darted out the door and raced for the path that led across the meadow. He felt like skipping but that would be too babyish and he was eleven now.

Eoin was crouched beside the rocky edge of the neighbour’s duck pond, a place the boys often met to skip stones or scare the ducks, staring intently at the ground by his feet. Fen slowed his pace, watching as Eoin’s brow furrowed in concentration and his arm jerked up and down as his lips moved.

“What’re you doing?” Fen asked.

Eoin jumped up, startled, and hid his hand behind his back. “Nothing.”

“Huh.” Fen dug a toe into the ground where Eoin had crouched. There was nothing but a few grains of barley stuck in the mud. “Were you trying to do magic? You know that isn’t allowed outside school and you haven’t even _gone_ to school yet.”

Eoin’s face reddened under his freckles. “I know that.”

“You were, you were trying to do magic.”

“What if I was?” He stuck out his chin and stared up at Fen, no longer hiding his wand. Even though Eoin was five months older and not a small boy, Fen topped him by a head.

Without speaking, Fen pulled his new treasure from his back pocket and held his palm out. It felt slightly warm in his hand, sending a tingle up his arm.

His friend’s eyes widened. “You got your wand.”

Fen glanced around, but there was no one in sight. He lowered his voice, bending closer to Eoin. “Can you show me the spell?”

The red-head likewise looked around before both of them crouched down at the edge of the pond. He pointed to the barley abandoned in the sticky mud. “It’s a spell to levitate. Say _wingardium leviosa_ and you have to kinda wave the wand like this.” Eoin demonstrated.

Fen held out his wand, hand trembling despite his effort to appear calm and confident, and said the funny words. There was another tingle in his arm but no silver sparks. He repeated the words and actions but the grains remained stuck.

“ No, like this.” Eoin tried again without success.

Fen nudged him aside. He said the words louder and waved his wand with a bit more force. The barley did not levitate.

They continued taking turns.

Finally, t here was a shimmer and a faint whisper of smoke.

“There!” Fen cried. “It moved.”

“No, it didn’t.” Eoin shook his head. “My turn.”

Fen’s wand grew warmer as the minutes passed. His elbow ached. The only consolation to his repeated failure s was that Eoin was no more successful with the spell than he was.

The sun sank lower as they continued their fruitless attempts, growing more frustrated and snapping at each other, until Fen had to squint to see the grain in the twilight and still the barley refused to budge . Jumping to his feet , Fen dug his heel into the ground, kicking and gouging at the mud until the seeds had been obliterated.

Panting, he frowned at how dark it was. The ducks floated noiselessly across a patch of water in the twilight, the area silent except for crickets chirping. The failed magic was forgotten as dread curled in his stomach at the scolding waiting for him for being out this late . He shouted a farewell to his friend and bolted across the meadow.

He slowed, dragging his feet as a dozen possible excuses ran through his head, each discarded in turn as unlikely to pacify his mother. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked a stone aside.

It was the smell he noticed first. He paused, nose scrunched at the stench: a combination of wet dog hair and foul breath. Heart pounding, he lifted his head and looked around but it was too dark to see far.

A rumbling growl reached his ears. He began to run. His toe caught a rock and he stumbled, palms and knees skidding across thorny weeds and rocky dirt of the path.

A blurry form streaked toward him, silvery grey in the moon’s glow. For a moment, Fen thought Tom’s sheepdog had gotten loose again, but it was much larger than a dog. He jumped to his feet and began to run again.

Then the creature leapt on him, jaws open. He cried out in pain, trying to shield his head with his arms. Sobbing with pain and fear, he fell to the ground.

~

Fen heard voices, but they were muffled as if his head was stuffed with wool. The back of his skull throbbed, the skin of his arms stung, and there was a heavy weight on his wrists. Tears sprang to his eyes when he tried to move. The muffled voices and pain faded to unconsciousness.

He woke to the sweet smell of herbs. He blinked and cracked open his eyelids. Needles of dust drifted in a beam of sunlight from one tiny, dirty window. The floor beneath him was hard and level. It was no longer night and he was not in the meadow but it was not his bed; he was on the floor in the attic. There was a bad taste in his mouth. His head still ached.

The pain was less this time as he shifted, but he was unable to push himself to a sitting position. When he lifted his head, he saw that his shirt was gone but he still wore his trousers, which were torn at the knee and filthy. He turned his head slowly to see that his bandage-wrapped arms were manacled.

There were voices again, clearer as they came closer, possibly in the hallway or on the stairs leading to the attic.

“How did this happen?” his stepfather demanded.

“I let my attention lapse.” Fen did not recognize the man’s voice. “I allowed myself to be distracted by a report of another werewolf spotted in the City. I believed that was the greater danger – an unregistered werewolf in a highly populated area – and trusting enough to suppose the creature I was assigned to oversee had properly secured himself.”

The man did not sound like anyone Fen knew. Was it an Auror or an official from the Ministry? Fen tried to recall what had happened. He and Eoin had attempted magic. Were they in trouble? Was his friend locked up somewhere? Would they be banned from school?

“By the time I realised the report was false, I found my charge had fled. I tracked him here, catching up only minutes after the moon rose, but it was too late. All I could do was destroy the creature and tend to your boy there.”

“He’s not my lad,” Fen’s stepfather snapped.

Fen suddenly wished his father was there. He remembered warm brown eyes and a kindly smile. His father would know what was happening and who the stranger was and he would explain it to Fen.

“Will he be all right?” It was his mother’s voice, though high and strained.

“The wounds will heal. I’ve put a mixture of powdered silver and dittany on the wounds and poured a blood-replenishing potion down his throat,” the stranger said.

Nose wrinkled, Fen tried to spit the bad taste from his mouth. Then he raised one arm as high as it could go. His skin was glittery under the white bandages. He had been hurt. There had been a dog or something. Images flashed of teeth and claws and horrible breath. The memories hurt and Fen pushed them away.

“But will he be _all right_?” His mother’s voice was still high and thin but much quieter, a desperate whisper. “He’s not … he can’t be one of them.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“You should’ve let him die rather than live like an animal.” His stepfather’s deep voice was rougher than usual.

“Phineas.” His mother’s voice quivered in horror.

The fear in her voice stirred a lump of cold dread in the pit of Fen’s stomach. The ache at the base of his skull began pounding its way up the back of his head.

The door to the attic room cracked open. The light slanting in the window was in Fen’s eyes, making it hard to see who stood there. He squinted. His step-father was wide-shouldered with a bushy black beard; the man in the doorway had a slimmer build and smooth chin. He wore a long grey coat with black buttons.

Fen’s step-father shouldered the stranger aside. Fen’s mother peered past her husband.

“Mum!”

“He’s fine.” She turned in relief to the man in the grey coat.

The stranger shook his head. “They look normal enough in daylight.” His thin lips compressed in a tight line. “They look very different by moonlight. There’s nothing human left when they change.”

His mother’s gaze came back to Fen, her lower lip trembling. “No, he’s human. He is.”

Her voice rose. Frightened, Fen yanked against his restraints.

His stepfather grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Mary, you got to be strong. You can’t do anything for him if he’s already gone. Think of the little ones.”

She huddled closer to her husband’s broad shoulders, blinking back tears as she nodded.

“Moonrise is only a few hours away,” the stranger said.

“The full moon was last night.” His step-father’s statement sounded more like a question.

“The symptoms are less harsh the night before and after a full moon but unmistakably present. We’ll know for certain very soon.”

“Here?” His mother’s voice was higher yet. “If that’s a … a … one of those creatures we’ll be cut to ribbons. My daughter’s only nine, and the babe …”

Fen tugged at the metal around his wrists. He had to protect his mother and his little sister and baby brother from whatever was threatening them. Even his stepfather sounded frightened. Why did they not explain to him what was going on?

“I can’t put my wife and little one in danger,” his stepfather said.

“He’s restrained and I’ll be watching him. There’s no danger to your family.”

“Seems to me you ain’t that reliable.” Fen’s stepfather shuffled back into the hallway. “Mary, you and Nellie and the baby stay at the Manion place tonight.”

A shiver crawled up Fen’s spine along with a horrible suspicion he pushed aside as too terrifying. His head ached worse now than when he had woken.

His mother’s face was pale and her lower lip trembled as the stranger’s arm reached around her to pull the door closed. Why were they leaving him here?

“Mum?” Fen whispered. His throat was scratchy. He coughed. “Mum?” he yelled louder.

The door remained closed. The cold lump in his stomach spread. His fingers trembled. The ache in his skull pounded behind his eyes. He pulled against the restraints that held his arms at his sides.

Something bad was out there. It was coming for them. It had scared his family into leaving and he would not be there to protect them. His gaze was pulled to the tiny window where the white skeletal outline of the moon was visible in the bright blue sky. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

“Mum!” he shouted.

~

There were occasional thumps below and once Fen heard raised voices, but the door to the attic did not open again. His stomach churned and a restless energy grew as the light outside the window faded to a red glow. His mouth was dry and his bladder uncomfortably full, but his thoughts were mired in a rising flood of nausea and dread.

It was dark beyond the window when the wooden door creaked open. The stranger with the grey coat and black buttons stood there again, a single candle in his hand.

Fen craned his neck to see past the thin figure in the doorway, but there was no sign or sound of anyone in the hall beyond. “Where’s my mum?” His voice was hoarse in his dry throat.

The stranger did not answer, only came closer to set the candle on a short table near the door. He glanced at the dark sky through the grubby pane of glass, then settled himself in the single metal chair, arms crossed, and leaned back. His wand was tucked into a pocket of his long coat.

There was a glimmer of light in the starry sky beyond the window. Fen found his eyes drawn there, as if he was searching for something. He opened his mouth to ask the stranger if he had called Fen’s name, then the first pain hit.

It was worse than the gashes on his arms and leg, worse than the pounding in his head. It felt like he was being stretched in all directions and simultaneously stabbed with hot pokers in his joints. He screamed, but it came out as a croak. His ears felt as if they were being yanked from his head. His jaw cracked and his finger bones splintered. The ache from his injuries vanished in the burning that engulfed his whole body. He heard more than saw the strange man in the long coat draw his wand, but even that small observation was overshadowed by agony.

When the pain subsided, Fen still lay shackled on the floor, his eyes fixed on the purple sky outside, lightening to pink as the sun rose. Every limb was sore and his torso and hair were soaked with sweat. Fen was breathing hard, his lungs gasping for air as if he had run all the way from the duck pond but he was certain he had not moved in many hours. He remembered lying here, screaming in rage, jaws snapping. Jaws? And he had clawed the floor.

Fen looked at the floorboards beneath the shackles on his hands. There were gouges in the wood, ragged strips torn from the weathered grey.

The stranger stood, pocketed his wand, and moved to the door. He was gone for several long moments, minutes or maybe an hour, Fen was too exhausted to tell. The sky slowly turned blue and birds shouted to each other outside, but it remained utterly quiet in the house.

Fen tried to make sense of the images in his head, images tinged with a fuzzy edge and overpowered by smells and sounds. He had sensed, but not seen, a mouse that sniffed at the attic door last night before he growled and it scampered away in fright. He had tried to get at the stranger who sat in the chair so close that Fen could smell his loathing. The sensations felt like memories more than dreams, yet they were too simplistic to be human memories: full of sensory input but devoid of deep thought and fuzzy around the edges.

Downstairs, a door slammed. When the strange man returned, he carried a thick iron key which he used to unlock the shackles that held Fen to the floorboards. He tossed down a clean shirt and trousers and motioned for the boy to get up and dressed.

Rubbing his wrists, Fen complied. His neck was stiff, but the gashes on his arms and leg had nearly healed. There was barely a twinge as he slipped his arms into the shirt and buttoned it. The stranger’s potions were effective, even though he did not seem to be a healer. Fen’s head still ached. “What’s going on? What happened to me?”

Without answering, the stranger picked up the shackles, shrunk them, and tucked them into a pocket of his long coat along with the key. Then the stranger motioned Fen to precede him out the door and down the stairs.

“Where are we going?”

“Down to the kitchen.”

Fen did not think that was their final destination. “And then?” He paused to look back over his shoulder.

“Somewhere safe.”

The stranger’s impatient tone discouraged further questions. Fen faced forward and continued down. His mother would explain.

As he passed his room on the second floor, he glanced inside. His school trunk still sat in the middle of the floor and he glimpsed the telescope and scales perched atop his clothes and robes. Then they descended the last flight of stairs to the kitchen.

His mother and stepfather were there, his arms around her shoulders and her face pressed into his neck. His little sister clung to their mother’s leg, hair straggling from her blonde braids.

“Mum!” Fen tried to run to her but the stranger’s hand clamped on his shoulder.

His mother turned toward the stranger, her eyes red-rimmed. “Is he …?”

Fen looked at the man in confusion as he nodded.

His mother broke into sobs, burying her face in her husband’s shirt.

“You scared her!” Fen twisted against the thin man’s hold.

The man gave him a hard shake and his teeth rattled. The pounding in his head increased tenfold.

“Hey!” Fen’s little sister let go of their mother and took a step toward him.

“Nellie!” Their mother grabbed her, letting go of her husband to hold the little girl tight. “Don’t. Stay away from it.”

Fen redoubled his efforts to get free. Something was very wrong for his mother to look so frightened.

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Fen felt his body freeze when the stranger’s spell hit. He could not move, much less protect his mother and sister.

“What happens now?” Fen’s stepfather asked.

“I’ll take him to a safe house. They’ll keep him fed and we’ll ensure he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“My boy is gone.” Fen’s mother clutched her daughter tightly and sobbed.

Nellie threw her arms around her mother and began crying as well.

Fen tried with all his strength to fight the effects of the spell that held him immobile. He cold not let the stranger take him away when everything was so confused.

“This is your fault,” Phineas accused the stranger, patting his wife’s stooped shoulder with one thick hand. “It’s your fault the boy’s lost to us. We deserve compensation.”

The stranger sighed deeply. “It _is_ my fault but there is nothing more I can offer you than my regrets. I’m sorry for your loss.”

 _They act like I’m dead_ , Fen thought. He tried to open his mouth to scream. _I’m not dead._

With a sad shake of his head, the thin man collected Fen’s stiff body and Disapparated them both away. Fen wanted to call out to his mother, reassure her, hug her, but his entire body was frozen. His last glimpse was her tear-stained face pressed against his sister’s blonde braids.

~

The morning sun was shrouded by thick grey clouds when they landed in a cobblestone alley squeezed between tall brick walls. The air was dank and smelled like a compost heap during rain, though few raindrops reached the bottom of the well of dirty buildings.

Fen flexed his arms and legs, glad to have freedom of motion again, though the stranger retained his grip on Fen’s shoulder. Unsure where he was or which direction led home, Fen allowed himself to be steered toward a wooden door in the back of one of the buildings. The stranger knocked three times and then waited until it was opened just enough for an eye to peer out.

The eye blinked once before a short woman with an apron tied around her ample belly opened the door wide. “Lyall, come in, come in, you’ll catch your death out there.” Inside the entryway, she peered at Fen, bending slightly to bring her wizened face close to his.

Her lips were big, her breath was sour, and he flinched.

She shook her head and looked up at the thin stranger. “Another?”

The man nodded.

“Recent?”

“Night before last.”

The woman turned back to Fen and laid a plump hand on his cheek.

He shook it off. “Where’s my mum?”

“Your mother isn’t able to take care of you anymore.” She straightened and led the way into the dark depths of the tall brick building.

Fen glared as her wide backside disappeared down the hallway. His mother could take care of anything. Then panic crept up his spine as the man shut the wooden door to block out the mist and stink of the alley, trapping Fen inside with strangers. He felt the hand on his shoulder push him toward a room lit by candles and oozing steam.

In the kitchen, another boy sat at a spindly wooden table in a corner. He spooned up something that looked like gruel and smelled like sour milk. His elbows were on the table, his head bowed low over his wooden bowl with dirty-blond hair obscuring his face. Fen thought the boy peered up at them through his fringe of lank hair.

Despite the unappetizing smell, Fen’s stomach gurgled.

“You must be hungry …” The apron woman looked inquiringly at the stranger.

“Fenrir is his name. This is his.” The man she had called Lyall withdrew a familiar length of hawthorn from one of the pockets of his long coat.

“You must be hungry, Fenrir. I’m Mrs. Jackson. Sit in the chair at the table and I’ll fetch you a bowl of porridge.” She tucked his wand into her apron.

“I’d rather go home,” he said. He looked pleadingly at her, ashamed of having to beg mercy from this unknown woman but too tired and hungry and confused to hold it back. “Please, I don’t know this man and I don’t know you and I don’t know my way home. Mum will be making breakfast soon and I want to go home.” He was slightly out of breath at the end of this entreaty.

It was the stranger who answered instead. “This is your home,” he said curtly.

Fen ignored that ridiculous statement. He stared at the woman’s broad face framed by a few frizzy grey-black curls which escaped from a kerchief on her head.

“This is your home for a little while.” Her tone was gentler than the stranger’s, though nothing like his mother’s voice. “This is a safe place, that’s why Mr. Lupin brought you here.”

“I want to go home,” Fen whispered. “I don’t want be here.”

“Well, it’s only until you’re old enough,” Mrs. Jackson said. She gestured to the chair again and turned to collect a bowl and spoon from her creaky wooden cupboards before moving to the stove. Her broad back blocked the pot and most of the stove from view.

“I’ll be going, Connie.”

She said farewell without looking back.

For a moment, Fen stared into the dark corridor where the thin man had vanished, panicked at the disappearance of the person who had brought him here and knew where home was, even though he hated the man.

Mrs. Jackson turned with a second bowl of sour-milk-smelling mush in hand to see Fen had not moved. “Go on, sit. After you eat, Pippin will show you where you’ll sleep.”

Torn between running from the room, out of the house into the stinking alley, and simply curling into a ball on the floor, Fen stood, knees shaking. He had never been further from home than their one shopping trip to the City to buy his school supplies and he did not know how to get back to the farm. He heard the far door close and the crack of Apparition. Lupin was gone. Fen was stranded here.

But he was not going to curl up on the floor and cry. Slowly, he took a seat across from the fair-haired boy while Mrs. Jackson set a bowl and spoon in front of him. The gruel did not taste much better than it smelled, but it filled his empty belly. As soon as he was done, Pippin got to his feet and jerked his chin toward the dark corridor.

“Fenrir, keep this in your room.” Connie Jackson handed Fen his wand. “You’ll only be allowed to have it during lessons.”

He took the wand and clenched it tightly. She said he would only be here until he was old enough. That must mean old enough to board the train to school next week. He only had to wait a week to see his family. He followed the other boy down a hall and up a narrow set of creaky stairs.

“This ’ere’s the bedroom.” Pippin gestured to a cramped space barely big enough for two single beds, one chair, and one wardrobe. “That’s my bed there. You c’n have t’other.”

The other bed was a thin mattress with a single blanket, no sheets or pillow, tucked in a corner. It was dimly lit by a windowpane on the far wall with a view of the brown brick wall opposite. The room was sweltering.

“You got any things ’sides your wand?” Pippin asked.

Fen shook his head. “It’s all at home.”

The other boy gave him a sharp look from beneath his ragged fringe of hair. “Well, you c’n share the wardrobe when you get extra clothes.” He gestured again with one skinny hand. “We share most o’ the space ’cept what’s under our beds. That’s private.”

Fen glanced curiously at the bed the older boy had claimed. A cardboard box was tucked beneath.

“I gotta be at work by 9:00.” Pippin glanced out the window, though the cloud-shrouded sunlight made it difficult to tell how late in the morning it was.

Surprised, Fen examined the skinny boy, not much taller than Fen. Even though Fen was bigger than most boys his age, Pippin could not be more than fourteen, too young to be finished school. “Where d’ you work?”

“At the warehouse. I reckon you’ll be workin’ there soon enough.”

Fen blinked. “But school starts next week.”

The other boy gave a startled snort. “No school ’d take the likes of us. I gotta go. Make yourself at home. See you at supper.” Pippin disappeared back down the stairway.

Fen stared after him. No school? Mrs. Jackson had mentioned lessons. Maybe Pippin was too old for all he only looked a few years older than Fen.

“Fenrir,” a voice called from the bottom of the stairs.

He went into the hallway and squinted down the darkened stairwell. Mrs. Jackson stood there, her arms laden with cloth, a limp pillow on top. She gestured him closer and he descended the stairs.

“Here’s some bedding for you and an extra set of clothes. They might be big.” She eyed his stocky form. “Well, they might be long in the arm and leg but they’ll fit good enough. Did Pippin show you your room?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Make your bed and hang up your clothes, then you can help me around the house today. I have a few chores and my back aches like the dickens so an extra hand’ll be useful today.” She passed the armful of cloth to Fen. “Tomorrow, breakfast is at 8:00, then Pippin’ll take you to the warehouse and introduce you. Supper’s at 7:00. Wash your hands before meals, keep your room neat, help with the dishes, and be polite. I do the laundry and cooking and cleaning.”

Fen frowned at the thick layer of dust on the doorframe above his head. His mother would be horrified. Perhaps it was just as well there were no portraits on the walls; at home, his mother dusted each framed family picture daily. Here, only faded flowery paper covered the top half of the bare walls.

“Meet me in the kitchen after you put those away.” Connie Jackson turned and waddled back down the hall without any of his mother’s natural grace.

He watched her go. Then he took the bedding and clothes up to his room, made the bed, hung up the shirt and trousers, and tucked his wand under his pillow. He sat on the thin mattress and stared out the dirty pane at the brick wall on the other side of the alley.

Much of what had happened in the last day was confusing, but there were a few things he knew. First, the creature that attacked him had not been Tom’s dog. The stranger with the button-up coat had spoken of a werewolf, a monster that that had once been a person. Second, Fen was still alive, that meant he was now one of those monsters even though he felt human, at least in the daytime. Last night, the moon had called to the monster inside him and his mind had twisted like his body. He could recall smells, the incredible strength that tensed powerful leg muscles, and the instinct that drove him to seek raw flesh, but while in that form his awareness was clouded. His human mind was there but not in control, just as his human sight was overshadowed by his heightened sense of smell and hearing. That monster frightened his family. That monster frightened him. Because of that monster, the stranger took him away.

Fen thought Lyall Lupin must know a lot about werewolves, but the sour-faced man had not offered information, nor had he seemed inclined to answer questions. Fen wanted to know how long it would be until he was cured, or at least well enough to safely go home. He wanted to learn about this curse and how it was treated. But Lupin had left and the plump woman did not seem like a healer or official, so he would have to wait until he got to school for answers. Professors knew about all kinds of magic and magical creatures, plus they would have mountains of books. He would learn about the changes that happened to him and how to live with them.

He wished he could talk to his mother. He would see her at the train station on Saturday. He would promise to study hard and learn to control this monster. His mother would give him a hug and kiss and wish him well and his sister would say goodbye and tell him to write her all about it and he would probably see Eoin on the train. Everything would be back to how it should be. One week from now, he would be off to school and leave this dismal place behind.

It was just one week.

~

Fen was used to hard work. He was used to chores. But he was not used to labouring for nine hours straight, indoors, without the company of family or friends. Mrs. Jackson did not sound or smell or look like his mum. By the end of the day, he was hungry and he missed his mother and his sister and even the irritating wails of his baby brother. He would have happily listened to one of Nellie’s endless annoying made-up stories just for the sound of her familiar little girl voice.

At 7:00, as promised, Mrs. Jackson had a meal ready. Pippin had returned and was already seated when Fen entered the kitchen. The room smelled like boiled cabbage and there was a haze of smoke as well as steam. Fen’s nose twitched but his mouth watered at the sight of the steaming bowls on the table.

He picked up a spoon and dug into the watery broth. It was bland, but the potatoes and cabbage were cooked and he had finished his entire bowl before Pippin had eaten half of his. Mrs. Jackson lifted one black brow and then refilled Fen’s bowl before she set the pot to soak and then sat down with her own supper.

The meal passed in silence. Pippin’s pale hair hid his face, bent over his bowl. When Fen had finished his second serving, Mrs. Jackson set him to washing dishes. Having his hands in hot water in the warm room sent sweat trickling down his back in a steady stream and his shoulder blades itched.

After the water was drained and the last pot left to sit upside down beside the sink, Fen followed Pippin up the stairs. Pippin knelt on the floor and pulled a cardboard box from under his bed. He retrieved parchment and a piece of charcoal and began sketching, sitting on his bed with the parchment on his bent knees.

Fen went to his own bed and watched the other boy but Pippin never looked up from his drawing. Outside the dirty window pane all Fen could see was grey. A cat yowled and a bin rattled. Fen lay on his side on top of the scratchy wool blanket, pulled his knees to his chest, and stared at the bare wooden floor until he fell asleep.

~

Pippin did not take Fen to the warehouse the next day after all; instead, Friday was a repeat of the first day at Mrs. Jackson’s. On the weekend, Pippin helped with the household chores alongside Fen, then Monday he went to work again. For Fen, each day was the same: breakfast, chores, supper, then sit in his room and stare at the floor until he fell asleep. Except for the daylight that filtered into his bedroom between the brick buildings outside the window, Fen would not have known the world outside continued to exist.

At breakfast on Wednesday, seven days after his arrival, Mrs. Jackson announced Fen would accompany Pippin to work. Fen found himself looking forward to being outside. Saturday, September 1 was still three days away and the prospect of spending that entire time inside these walls made him cringe.

Fen finished his porridge faster than usual, then waited impatiently for Pippin to take his last spoonful. Finally, the older boy slid off his chair and ambled down the corridor. When the door opened to the alley, Fen shouldered the skinny boy aside and darted through the doorway.

The smell of rotten food and urine was stronger in the morning sunlight than it had been that cloudy dawn he had arrived. Fen sucked in a lungful of air but the smog made him cough. He blinked several times, looking around at the towering brick walls coated in grime which blocked any breeze there may have been. High above was a narrow rectangle of sky, blue with wispy shreds of greyish cloud.

“Comin’?” Pippin had paused a few steps away to look back over his narrow shoulder.

Fen nodded and the two of them set off towards the street. When they reached the mouth of the alley, the foul smells abated but the noise level increased. Fen walked close behind Pippin, trying not to stare at people lounging in doorways or hurrying along the pavement. Occasionally there would be a pop of Apparition and once or twice voices raised in argument echoed down from an open window or doorway.

Two streets up, Pippin turned right and continued until he came to a two-story building without windows and walls made of concrete blocks. He pushed open a metal door that screeched against the cement floor as it swung inwards.

A short man in coarse navy blue shirt and trousers hurried over. “Pippin, you can get straight to work. I’ll take the new boy to the boss.” The man made a flapping motion with his hands and Pippin ambled further into the recesses of the huge storeroom while Fen waited uncertainly. “This way, this way.”

Fen hurried after the supervisor, weaving around stacks of wooden crates and barrels until they reached a narrow stair leading up to a glassed-in room that overlooked the warehouse floor. The man opened the glass door and waved Fen inside.

The office was crowded with metal filing cabinets each of which had scrolls of parchment stacked on top and spilling from the overflowing drawers. In the middle of the room was a wooden desk buried under more scrolls.

Sitting on a straight-backed chair, head bent over the desk as her quill scratched across a parchment that trailed down to the floor, was a woman with grey hair cropped short, the ends curling at her nape and forehead in the warm office. “What?” she barked without looking up.

“This here’s the new one from Connie’s.”

“Ah.” The woman put down her quill and sat back. She folded her arms across her plump chest and looked Fen up and down. “You’re a sturdy sort. How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Eleven.”

Her grey brows went up. “Well. We’ll get a good few years out of you then.”

 _Years_? “I start school on Saturday.” Fen puffed out his chest.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Your kind ain’t safe around other children.”

 _His kind?_ Fen frowned in confusion at her malevolent expression. He was not a danger in the daytime, and soon he would learn how to restrain the monster that came out when called by the full moon. Maybe Mrs. Jackson had not explained that to these people.

“Put him to work cleaning section seven. Some idiot tried bringing in a load of gurdyroot without proper permits from the Ministry and the whole lot ended up going bad sitting in our warehouse. You can’t scourgify that stuff, so it won’t matter this one’s underage.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The short man executed a near bow, and then tugged Fen out of the office by his sleeve.

Fen followed down the wooden steps that led from the office to the warehouse floor. In section seven, Fen was told to carry each mouldy-smelling crate to a bin in the alley behind the warehouse, pry off the lid, pick through the mushy contents for any pieces still salvageable, then dump the rest. After he had emptied about a dozen crates, he had to scrub them with cold, soapy water and then stack them by the door. The salvaged gurdyroot went into another crate near the door.

Several hours later, Fen tucked his wrinkled hands under his armpits to warm them. The gurdyroot smelled like garlic and looked like green onion. He glanced down the alley to ensure he was alone, then took a bite of the least squishy piece. He immediately spit it out and wiped his tongue with the back of a hand, then coughed and spluttered until none of the horrible-tasting root remained in his mouth though the foul taste lingered.

~

Friday passed much the same as Thursday, except Fen did not meet with the boss lady in her office before being taken to section seven. Friday evening he lay on his cot, staring out the window, unable to sleep. Tomorrow he would see his family. Tomorrow he would collect his trunk and be on his way to school. The bossy woman at the warehouse would have to find someone else to clean up her nasty gurdyroot mess. He could barely wait to feel his mother’s hug and see his little sister’s smile. His baby brother might even have another tooth by now.

He wondered if Mr. Lupin would be the one to take him to King’s Cross Station or if his mother would pick him up. Probably Lupin would take him since the thin man was the only one who knew where he had taken Fen.

Beyond the window, the brick wall faded into darkness, then eventually lightened to grey again, and finally it was bright enough to see individual bricks stained with soot and mould. Pippin remained asleep but Fen could not lie still any longer. He slipped from under the blanket and dressed in the clothes he had been wearing when he arrived in this house. The clothes Mrs. Jackson had given him he folded and laid on top of the cot. He retrieved his wand from beneath the pillow and tucked it in his pocket, then slipped down the stairs and into the kitchen, feeling his way through the darkened halls.

The kitchen was eerily silent. Fen had not been in this room without Mrs. Jackson bustling about, cooking or cleaning. The only light was from the banked flames beneath the oven, a faint red glow that emphasized the room’s dark corners. He felt his way to the shelf where he had seen Mrs. Jackson get fresh candles and lit one from the oven.

“What are you doing awake, Fenrir?”

He spun at the sound of her voice and nearly dropped the candle.

“Breakfast won’t be ready for an hour yet.” She regarded him for a moment, arms on her wide hips. “You can help me since you’re here. Give me the candle and fetch the cooking pot.”

Fen helped Mrs. Jackson make breakfast. Just before they finished, Pippin ambled in, his lank hair messier than usual.

“You boys are going to wash windows today,” Mrs. Jackson said as she served them each a bowl.

Fen looked worriedly at her. Was there time for chores before his train left?

“Pippin, you know what to do. I’m leaving Fenrir in your care.”

The fair-haired boy nodded without looking up from his breakfast.

Fen fidgeted in his seat but held back his questions. Surely she would know what time he needed to be at the station so the Hogwarts Express must not leave for a few hours yet. That was a disappointment.

After he and Pippin had eaten, they washed the dishes and then Pippin led the way to where buckets and ladders were stored. As he dipped his rag in lukewarm soapy water and scrubbed the inside of each window in the dingy house, seeing rooms he had not been in before, Fen watched anxiously outside. By pressing his face against the highest windows, he could catch a glimpse of the sky and he carefully tracked the sun as it came closer to being overhead. A few times, Pippin spoke sharply to him and Fen snapped his attention back to the task at hand, but for the most part they worked in silence.

Finally, he tossed down his rag, shouted to Pippin that he had to see Mrs. Jackson, and raced toward the kitchen. Fen stood awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot while Mrs. Jackson hummed as she put away clean dishes.

She turned and started, then put one hand on her ample chest. “Mercy, Fenrir, what are you hovering for? You can’t be done with them windows.”

He clenched his hands and stuffed them into his trouser pockets. “I’d rather wait here.”

Her black brows drew together. “Wait for what?”

“For the stranger. I mean Mr. Lupin.”

Her forehead crinkled more. “Lyall Lupin? We won’t see him for three more weeks.”

Fen frowned. Had he remembered the date wrong? No, September 1 was definitely the date the train left for school. “Who’s taking me to the station, then?”

Mrs. Jackson put her hands on her hips. “What station? What _are_ you talking about, boy?”

“The train to school.” He bit back his impatience. “Mum has my trunk. Will she meet me at the station? Is she coming here? What time does the train leave?”

An incredulous expression came over Mrs. Jackson, followed by an odd mix of irritation and pity which confused him more. “Fenrir, do you mean the Hogwarts Express?”

Finally they were getting somewhere. “Yes,” he said eagerly. “When does it leave?”

She glanced at the mantel clock on a high shelf beside the door. “I expect it’s leaving about now.”

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. They had waited too long!

“But, Fenrir, you’re not going to school.”

His heart began pumping again, pounding in his ears. “Yes, I am. I’m old enough now. I waited the week.”

She shook her head slowly, tight grey-black curls shaking underneath her kerchief. “You’ll stay here until you’re old enough to be out on your own, but you won’t be going to school.”

Her image wavered in front of his eyes. He blinked and tried to make sense of her words. “I’m old enough for school,” he whispered. “I’m eleven. Mum has my school trunk; we bought everything on the list. She’ll be waiting for me at the station.”

“No, she won’t.” Mrs. Jackson hesitated, then reached a hand toward him. She had not attempted to touch him since he had been here.

He flinched away. “Yes, she’s waiting for me. I have to be on the train to school.”

“Now, listen here –”

“I HAVE TO GO!” Fen spun and raced for the outer door.

“Come back here,” Mrs. Jackson shouted.

Ignoring her, he threw open the wooden door and raced down the alley to the corner. On the street he paused and looked both ways. Where was the train station?

He grabbed the shirt of a man in dingy trousers passing by. “Where’s King’s Cross Station?”

The man frowned and brushed Fen’s hand away. “North.”

“How do I get there?” The train was leaving. His mother must be anxious by now. Fen grabbed at the man’s sleeve. “Please, sir.” He felt tears start but he was helpless to hide them.

The man looked down. His features softened. “Just stick out your wand. The Knight Bus’ll get you there. You got the fare?”

Fen’s breath caught in his throat. He had no money. Tears welled up in earnest.

“Here.” The man shoved a sickle into Fen’s hand. Then he hurried away.

Squeezing his fingers around the precious coin, Fen drew his wand, stuck it out, and closed his eyes. A BANG echoed between the tall buildings and bright light flashed behind his lids. Blinking, Fen stared at a woman with purple hair and purple uniform who hopped out of the triple-decker purple bus and shouted a welcome.

“King’s Cross,” Fen said, jumping on board and shoving the sickle at her.

She mumbled about young people and how rude they were these days and then there was another bang. Fen lost his footing, landing sprawled on the sticky floor. Before he could pick himself up, the purple woman shouted “King’s Cross” and the doors opened.

Fen raced out. He barely heard the loud bang of the bus’s departure as he halted in surprise, nonplussed by the number of people converging on the station. Then a train whistle jarred him into motion again and he dodged among the travellers, weaving in and out and heading for the platforms. Shouted curses followed him but most people were intent on their own destinations, greeting each other or hurrying to catch trains or cabs.

He paused to get his bearings, then spotted platforms nine and ten. There was no sign of his mother, so she must be waiting on the other side. What must she think of him being so late? He raced toward the ticket barrier between platforms nine and ten only to choke when his shirt was grabbed from behind.

“There you are.” It was the stranger’s voice.

Fen twisted in his grasp. “The train,” he gasped with the little bit of air he could draw in.

“The train’s no concern of yours.”

Fen struggled harder. “My mum’s waiting for me.”

The stranger shook him and Fen’s head snapped back and forth. He tried to catch his breath.

“No one’s waiting for you here. Let’s go.”

Mr. Lupin dragged him back toward the station entrance.

Eyes watering and ears ringing, Fen watched the barrier disappear behind the crowd.

~

Mrs. Jackson pursed her lips when Lyall Lupin escorted Fen into her house with a strong grip on his arm. She wasted breath scolding him about running away, but stopped when it was clear he was not listening. For the next few days, her expression was cold and she spoke to him only when necessary, and in clipped tones.

Pippin gave him a sour look for skipping out on washing windows and made certain Fen did the larger share of their Sunday chores. By Monday, he had gotten over his pique and things between them went back to indifferent silences.

In the passing days, the biggest change was a weekly visit from Lupin. He would seek out Fen, scrutinize him carefully, then speak with Mrs. Jackson in hushed voices. The other change was that Fen began to take special note of his surroundings; memorizing each hallway and room so he could find his way by touch alone. He also stole a moment to try the exit door at various times, finding it locked every morning and night until they left for work. It was also locked during the weekend.

After Lupin’s second visit, two weeks after the incident at King’s Cross and three weeks after Fen had been taken from his home and deposited in Connie Jackson’s care, he waited until the house was dark and Pippin had begun to snore lightly.

Fen sat up and removed his blanket, fully clothed. He reached beneath his pillow for his wand and then moved quietly down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky third step. He did not need a light as he trailed his fingertips along the dry paper covering the walls. When he reached the door leading to the alley, he turned the handle and tugged. It was locked.

He felt in his pocket for the key Mrs. Jackson usually kept in a jar on the shelf above the stove. Fen had knocked it into the dishwater after supper and then slipped it into his trouser pocket. There was probably a spell to unlock the door but he would never learn it until he got to school, plus he knew there was a way for Them to track underage magic. Until Fen could get safely to his family, he wanted to avoid anyone who might alert Mr. Lupin or Mrs. Jackson to his whereabouts. The metal key rubbed against the other bit of metal in Fen’s pocket as he drew it out.

He opened the door just far enough to squeeze through, leaving the key in the lock after he pushed the door to. There was enough moonlight to avoid stumbling into any bins. A cat hissed at him, yellow eyes gleaming, but not loudly enough for anyone else to hear.

The night was chilly for September and Fen wished suddenly for a cloak. It was possible he would have a long walk; he was not really certain where the bus would drop him off.

Remembering the loud bang the magical transportation made when it arrived and left, Fen walked several streets, heart pounding, ears twitching at every little sound and nose quivering as if he could recognize pursuit by scent alone. He kept his hands in his trouser pockets, the fingers of his left hand clenched around a precious coin and the other grasping his wand.

After several minutes he found himself in an unfamiliar street. The tall, brick buildings looked much the same as every other street but the smells had changed from rotten food and urine to smoke. He could not sense any people in this area, though cats still slunk through the dark out of sight.

Hand shaking, Fen drew his wand, closed his eyes, and held it out in front of him. For a moment there was nothing. Maybe the bus did not run at night? He shivered, thinking it would be a long, cold wait for dawn. Then there was a bang and the cats hissed and scattered.

The three-decker purple bus belched and the door opened. Fen bolted inside before the conductor could get a single word out, pushing the sickle into her hand and grabbing the nearest handhold which turned out to be a bedstead.

The woman in purple uniform scowled but asked, stiltedly polite, where it was he wanted to go. He named the village nearest his family’s farm, stomach doing somersaults that they might ask him where exactly that was or how to get there, but she only gave a curt nod and turned away. Fen let out the breath he had been holding, then grabbed tighter to the bedframe as the bus jolted forward.

The trip was longer this time. He saw the purple-haired woman twice more as she passed him to wake up one of the sleeping passengers that occupied another of the beds sliding back and forth as the bus rocked along on its journey. No one gave Fen more than a passing glance.

The large slice of moon was fading in the lightening sky when the purple woman poked Fen and pointed to the door. “Your stop.”

He blinked several times, realizing his eyes must have shut though he remained standing, holding tight to the cold metal of the empty bed. He stumbled down the steps in the dimness before daybreak and glanced around. There was no movement along the dirt road. Excitement started his heart pounding again even as the loud bang behind him signalled the bus’s departure.

Fen took a hesitant step in the direction of his family’s farm, then another and another. He glanced over his shoulder, certain there would be someone behind him, but no sound, sight, or smell indicated pursuit. He hurried his steps until he was running, raising puffs of dirt and scattering pebbles in his wake.

He stopped when the farmhouse was in sight, washed grey in the pre-dawn. His whole body quivered, his attention now entirely on the house in front of him.

He dashed forward again, throwing open the front door. “Mum! I’m home, Mum! I’m okay!” He hoped she had not worried too much when he never showed up at the station.

A baby’s cry from the back room his mother shared with her husband was followed by sleepy grumbling, but a gasp from the stairs caught his attention. Nellie stood on the fourth step in her nightgown, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, one hand over her mouth.

“Fen?” Her surprise quickly turned to a bright smile. She bounded down the last steps and threw herself into his arms.

He squeezed his little sister tightly. She smelled of sunshine and grass and sweat.

There was another gasp, this time deeper and from the short hallway that led to the bedroom at the back of the house. Fen looked up to see his mother standing stock still, baby in her arms.

Her brown eyes were wide and he smelled panic. “Phineas!” she shouted. “Nellie, come here.” Her voice was thin and strained as she reached out as though to grab her daughter and drag her away though her feet remained rooted to the spot.

Nellie pulled away from Fen and looked uncertainly between her brother and her mother.

“Come here now!” Their mother’s voice had risen. It nearly hurt Fen’s ears.

His little sister moved away, edging away from him and closer to her mother with her gaze darting between them.

As soon as Nellie was close enough, their mother grabbed her with her free arm and began backing down the hall holding tightly to both her younger children. “Phineas!” she shouted again.

“Mum?” Fen asked. He wanted to hug her; he wanted her to hug him, but he could only stare.

“Merlin’s beard, woman, what’s all the noise?” Fen’s stepfather came up behind his wife hitching up a pair of trousers. When he saw Fen, he stopped dead.

He glanced out the window at the lightening sky.

Fen’s mother followed his gaze and the blood drained from her face. “Is it …?”

His thick brow furrowed. “No.”

“When the babe woke me, there was moonlight out there,” she whispered.

“It wasn’t full, Mary.” He pushed her aside in the narrow hallway and squeezed past her and the children. He stared down at Fen. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Fen frowned at him. “I’m here to see Mum.” He turned his gaze back to where she peeked around her husband’s wide shoulders. “Mum, I’m okay. I missed the train but I’m okay.” He took a hesitant step forward.

She flinched and pulled further back. The baby protested her tightened grip.

Nellie looked up at her in confusion. “Mum? It’s Fen.”

“It isn’t.” She gave her daughter a shake with the arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “Fen’s gone. He’s _never_ coming back.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Never.”

Fen stared at her, a roaring in his ears, and felt as if his chest would explode. He blinked, trying to clear the red from his vision. He was only conscious that Phineas had moved when the man slammed his hand onto a delicate glass owl perched on the windowsill where there used to be a family picture of Fen with his mother and siblings.

There was a high-pitched screech as the glass shattered and Fen bent double, hands clamped over his ears at the stabbing pain. There was a loud crack but Fen was in too much pain from the echo of the screech to look up until a hand landed on his right shoulder.

“Thought we might find you here.”

At the sound of Mr. Lupin’s dispassionate voice, Fen’s stomach coiled into knots. He looked desperately toward his mother. “I’ll study hard. I’ll learn how to control this thing. I won’t let it hurt you.”

Lupin shook him, fingers biting into his shoulder. “You can’t change what you are.” He turned to Fen’s stepfather. “You did well, Mr. Greyback.”

“That’s the boy’s name, not mine.”

“I’m sorry. You did well, Phineas. Your family is safe.”

“No thanks to you. That creature got all the way into my house and threatened my wife and child.”

“It isn’t dangerous right now. The full moon is a week away, and I was on my way here when I got your signal, this being the most likely place for him to run.” With his left hand still clamped on Fen’s right shoulder, he drew his wand. “ _Reparo_.” The glass owl reassembled itself with another screech and Fen winced.

“How we gonna sleep tonight knowing he can get loose?” Phineas demanded.

Fen’s mother whimpered.

“I wouldn’t...” he whispered.

“We keep a closer net on them as the full moon approaches until two days after it begins to wan. Besides, this one won’t be going anywhere for the next ten days.”

Just before he felt the sucking sensation of side-along Apparition, Fen met his mother’s eyes. They were still wide and full of fear as she hugged her two younger children close to her body. She did not say a word as Lupin took Fen away again.

Fen was unresisting as Lupin pulled him through another alleyway door. It was not Mrs. Jackson’s house. This place was dirtier and smelled of something rotten. Even when he was shoved into a room smaller than the attic he had shared with Pippin, a room without any window and only a blanket on the floor for a bed, Fen made no protest. Lupin pulled the door to and muttered a locking charm, leaving Fen in darkness.

He leaned against the heavy wooden door, sliding slowly down until he was hunched on the floor. The floorboards were cool as well as gritty but he slumped sideways until his cheek was pressed against the dirty wood. His mother had been afraid of him. His mother had let a stranger take him away. She had not been worried about him at all. Maybe she had never even been at the train station.

He closed his eyes. They were itchy but not wet. His throat was tight. He thought about staying in this dark room for the next ten days. He wondered in a detached way if they intended to bring him food or water. He wondered if he would live here now, not that it mattered. It made no difference where he was, because he was a monster with no family and no home.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_I’m in the details with the devil._

~chap 2~

Full moon Wednesday, 20 September, 1956

They brought him food and water and candles after all. The man who delivered them had a scar on his cheek and part of his ear was missing. His moustache and beard were bushy, his shirt was stained on the belly, and his trousers were patched at the knees. The man never spoke above a mumble, not that Fen stirred himself to give a greeting or farewell or ask where he was or what would happen to him. He ate what they gave him to eat and slept on a blanket on the floor, cheek pressed to the scratchy wool. He dozed often; it was hard to tell how much time passed or when it was night.

After what might have been several days, Lyall Lupin came through the door after growling the unlocking spells. Fen tensed, his mind suddenly sharp, but before he could form a question he had been petrified by a quick spell. He felt fetters clamp against his wrists and ankles, felt the cold metal weight of them though he was unable to flinch. Then Lupin was gone again.

No one brought a meal that evening, which was just as well because his stomach rolled uncomfortably. Fen lay on the floor, tired despite the hours spent napping. The shackles bound his hands and feet together, not to the floor, yet he had no reason to get up even if he could. There was a sheen of sweat on his body that cooled rapidly making him shiver, but he was too nauseous to pull the blanket up.

The pain felt familiar this time, his limbs and ears stretching and hot pokers stabbing his joints. He screamed as his jawbone cracked and his finger bones splintered in the heat engulfing his body. He writhed on the floor, still screaming, as his consciousness faded.

Then he was waking up, on his hands and knees, palms pressed into the splintery floor. There were deep gouges in the floorboards. He turned his aching head painfully to the left to see the shredded remains of his bedding. Beneath the shackles on his wrists and ankles, his skin was cracked and bleeding. His mouth was dry. He remembered clawing at the floor and using his muzzle to rip the blanket. He remembered howling in rage. He wished it was Lupin he had sunk his teeth and claws into.

Sometime later two pails were shoved into his room, the door quickly closed before he could do more than turn his head on the shredded pile of blankets. One bucket held water. It was tepid but it soothed his parched throat. He drank nearly all of it then reached for the second bucket. His nose twitched at the scent of blood and he salivated when he saw a chunk of raw meat. He dug it out with his shackled hands, chewed, and swallowed. It tasted better than the dry bread and potato stew he was fed most days. He finished the meat and the last of the water, then lay down again.

The pain was worse that night as his body stretched and tore, twisting into the shape that he only remembered in bits and pieces the following day. This time when he woke he remembered chewing at the iron bands on his legs and scratching and clawing the walls. His wrists and ankles were torn and bleeding but he had no wash water. When two pails were again pushed into his room, he used a little water to rinse away the blood at his ankles and wrists and soothe the marks but not enough was left to quench his thirst. He chewed and swallowed the meat he had been given before he paced the length and breadth of his room. It was twelve steps from one side to the other and eleven steps from the door to the opposite wall.

The third night was not quite as bad. He wondered if he was getting used to it or if the symptoms weakened after the moon passed its fullest. Had Lupin said something like that to Fen’s parents? He knew a lot about werewolves; he had known what was happening to Fen before Fen realized it himself. It was also Lupin who turned Fen’s family against him, made them afraid, then dragged him away. Even Phineas had said it was Lupin’s fault. Yet he was free and Fen was locked up. It was unfair.

Fen watched Lupin sullenly when he took off the shackles the next day. Fen’s hands curled into fists as he sat staring up at the thin man from beneath a fringe of dark matted hair. The fetters disappeared into one of the deep pockets of Lupin’s long coat, then he was gone without a word while Fen remained on the floor atop his pile of shredded bedding, staring at the closed, door, hands clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms and added to his collection of cuts and bites.

When the bearded man with the scarred face came later, he was not carrying the usual bread and soup he had brought daily before the full moon. Instead, he gestured at Fen to get up and follow him out of the room. They walked down a narrow corridor with doors on either side, then up a short flight of cement steps into another corridor. Noise and light fell out of a doorway ahead to illuminate faded, striped paper on the hallway walls.

When they reached the entrance to the lighted room, Fen saw four other people. Three were seated around a sheet of plywood laid across two wooden barrels, the fourth stood stirring a large iron pot on top of a wood-burning stove. Smoke leaked from the chimney joint near the ceiling, mingling with the steamy moisture in the air. All Fen could see of the man at the stove was a grey ponytail hanging down a broad back and thick arms bared beneath rolled-up sleeves.

The three people at the makeshift table stopped speaking and looked at Fen. One, a tall girl with straight black hair and brown eyes, paused in the act of swatting the boy next to her and eyed the newcomer. Across the board, a smaller girl twisted around on the barrel she was using for a stool to see what the other two were looking at.

Fen stared back. The tall girl sized him up before she turned back to the boy and smacked him across the back of the head. As if that was a signal to resume their conversation, the three children began arguing loudly about chores.

The bearded man gave Fen a little shove and pointed to an empty high-backed chair next to the smaller girl. She quieted when Fen sat beside her, blue eyes narrow as she looked him up and down. Her grey dress was made of the same coarse material as the taller girl’s dress and the boy’s shirt. The material pulled tight across her chest and hips and the sleeves were slightly too short. Blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face.

When a heavy pot landed on the table in front of him, broth washing over one side and dribbling down to the plywood, Fen jumped and looked away from the blonde girl.

The man standing at the stove lowered his wand after the pot had been delivered, then put both hands on his hips. “Muriel, it’s your turn to do laundry.”

She and the boy both opened their mouths but the man cut them off.

“No excuses and no more o’ your tricks. Alfred took his turn last Monday.” He looked Fen up and down. Corded muscle stood out on his bare forearms and a snake tattoo peeked from beneath the rolled-up sleeves stretched tight around his upper arms. Grey hairs which had escaped his ponytail straggled across his sweaty forehead. “So you’re the new ’un. Breakfast is at 7:00 a.m. sharp every mornin’, includin’ weekends. Lessons are 8:00 to noon, then chores until supper at 6:30 p.m. Bedtime is 8:00 and no dilly-dallying.”

Fen was too intimidated by the grey-haired man to protest being sent to bed so early.

“The others’ll tell you whatever else y’ need to know.” He waved his wand again and four chipped bowls of different colours and sizes floated over to the table along with four mismatched spoons. Then he turned his back on them and began fussing with the stove.

The other three children wasted no time dishing up what smelled like the same potato stew Fen had been served in his room every day the previous week. A plate of bread rolls, burnt on top, landed on the table. Muriel grabbed the biggest one, then Alfred grabbed the least burnt. The girl beside Fen eyed him as she reached for one of the two buns that were left as if waiting for him to try to take the one she wanted. He shrugged and took the one that was left. His reticence earned him a look of mild disgust from the black-haired girl.

They dished up stew for themselves in the same order: the older girl first, then the boy beside her, then the blonde girl, then Fen. For the next few minutes, the sound of chewing replaced any conversation. The man with the grey ponytail brought a pitcher of water to the table along with four glasses. Fen’s glass had a chip in the rim and he spun it so the dent did not cut into his lip when he drank.

“What lessons?” he asked.

Across from him, Muriel and Alfred exchanged a glance. They were nearly the same height as well as having the same colour hair and eyes, though the girl’s features had sharper planes.

“Haven’t you had lessons yet?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Where you been?” the boy asked.

Muriel elbowed him and he fell silent, but continued to stare curiously at Fen.

He could not bring himself to talk about his home that was no longer a home, so he said, “Mrs. Jackson’s.”

The two exchanged a nod. “That’s a nice place,” the girl said.

Fen frowned but chose not to argue with her.

“How come you didn’t have lessons there?” she asked. “You’re allowed out in the afternoons to work but in the mornings you should have studied if you’re under 16.”

He shrugged.

She leaned across the table a little and sniffed. Her forehead creased. “How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

All three looked at him in surprise.

Muriel tossed her black hair back over her shoulder. “Well, we’re supposed to have lessons from the time we turn eleven. It’s one of the rules.”

“Don’t you go to school?” All three of them were older than he was; surely they had gone to school. Did all of them work like Pippin?

Alfred and the blonde girl gaped at him.

The older girl narrowed her eyes. “Is that supposed to be funny? Or are you stupid?” She shifted her weight forward and he saw her wand poking out of a pocket of her dress.

“I’m not stupid.” He likewise leaned forward and made sure Muriel could see the wand in his back pocket, though he had no idea what he would do if she attempted to hex him. He had never studied magic.

“How long since you turned?” the little girl next to him asked.

His head swivelled around to look at her. “It’s … This is my …” He gulped. “This was the second time,” he whispered.

The other three exchanged looks of understanding and the tall girl sat back in her seat.

Alfred looked at her, then turned to Fen. “They don’t allow our kind at school, but we’re still supposed to be educated, so we get lessons here.”

Fen felt a tingle of excitement. “So we learn magic? Like at Hogwarts?”

Muriel snorted.

“We learn _useful_ magic,” the blonde girl beside him said. “Since we’re not allowed to leave the home.”

“You mean we learn about,” Fen swallowed, “about what we are and how to control it?”

The look the older girl gave him made Fen feel like a fool.

“You can’t ever control it.” She tossed her head. “There’s no such thing as any potion or spell to make you human again.”

“They teach us magic they want us to know,” the boy explained. “Like cleaning and cooking charms and spells to move heavy things.”

“Spells we can use to get good jobs,” Muriel said, rolling her eyes. “As if they’ll ever give us _good_ jobs.”

“More like odd jobs,” Alfred scoffed.

“Before they suggest we find somewhere else to live and work.”

Fen listened, his nose twitching at the scents in the air: anger and fear and a bit of desperation. “Don’t we live here?”

Muriel gave him another scornful look. “Until we’re 17. Then we’re of age.”

“We can’t stay in the home after we’re of age.”

“How old are you?” Fen asked.

A fleeting look of panic crossed Alfred’s face before it was buried. “I’m 16.”

His sister shoved her shoulder into his. “I’m 15 but I’m going with my brother when he leaves. I’m not staying here.”

He gave her a look that was part stern and part grateful. “You can’t leave until you’re of age. You know you can’t.”

“Let them try and stop me,” she muttered.

“What’s your name?” the girl beside Fen asked.

His head snapped around at the abrupt change in topic. “Fenrir.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s a strange name.”

“What’s yours?”

“Alice.”

“How old are you?”

She was about the same height as he was, though not nearly as broad. Her blonde curls were cut short above her ears and the nape of her neck. “I turned 13 last week.”

“How long have you lived here?”

She shrugged. “A few months. Before that I lived with a family in Cripplegate, before that I stayed with the owners of Mr. Mulpepper’s in Knockturn Alley, and before that I was in a home east of Adelaide Square. The Cripplegate family was nice but they decided to move when they heard muggles were going to build homes in the area and they didn’t want to take me with them. I ran away so when I was caught I was brought here.” She tipped her head to the side. “I heard you ran away, too.”

“No, I …” Fen thought back on the past few weeks. He _had_ snuck out from Mrs. Jackson’s but that was to go back home, not run away.

“It’s no big deal.” A lock of straight black hair had fallen across Muriel’s face and she brushed it aside. “We’ve all had to get away from bad shite.”

Alfred winced, gaze on his sister, but she did not glance his way.

“It hasn’t been that bad,” Alice said.

“For you.” Muriel’s tone was a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “You’re younger and quieter and they like you.”

Alice shrugged as she took the last bite of her stew.

Muriel tipped her head and studied Fen. “You’ll be in group homes until you age out. Wizard families willing to foster those like us prefer cute little girls and you’re kind of bulky and a boy.”

Fen wondered if he should be offended, except it was an accurate description. “I don’t care.”

“Me, either. I’d rather be here than in some stupid foster home, anyway.”

Despite Muriel’s cold tone, Fen smelled a touch of fear. Alfred shifted a little closer to her.

Alice kept her eyes down as she set down her spoon. “I wouldn’t mind living with fosters again.”

Fen looked at her, surprised that she sounded wistful for a home that was not her own family.

~

Over the next few weeks, Fen learned the routine of the new place. As Mr. Warden had said, breakfast was on the table at 7:00 a.m. each morning. Morning lessons turned out to be both a joy and a disappointment; a joy to finally, at long last, learn to use his wand and disappointment at how tedious the exercises were. After the noon meal, all four children were kept busy with manual labour. Alfred was allowed to use magic and Muriel was permitted to use a restricted list of spells and charms, but the younger two were not to draw their wands outside of lessons. Once supper was over, they had an hour to entertain themselves before bedtime. Muriel and Alice shared a room and Fen was given a cot in Alfred’s room. None of them left the house and there were no visitors.

Breakfast on Thursday, October 18, was a sombre affair. Fen could smell nervousness and the other three were as restless as he felt, shifting in their chairs so that the wooden legs constantly scraped the floorboards. Even Alice was snappish. None of them ate much, and Fen’s stomach flip-flopped unpleasantly at the sight of food. Usually he was famished in the morning but he had woken still tired and with an uneasy stomach.

The bearded man with the scar and maimed ear was waiting for them when they finished eating the little they choked down. Alfred was escorted from the kitchen first, glancing back over his shoulder at his sister as the man led him away by the elbow. Fen was about to ask Muriel where he was going but her expression was even colder than usual and he decided not to draw her attention and risk her temper.

The man came back a few minutes later. Muriel shook off his arm when he tried to take her elbow. He was about to reach for her again but stopped at the growl in her throat. She marched down the hall in the direction her brother had disappeared, the bearded man following.

Fen watched them go, then tried to catch Alice’s eye but she refused to meet his curious gaze. A few minutes later, the man was back and gestured to Fen. With a last glance at Alice, he let the man grasp his elbow and lead him towards the back of the house. They passed through a door and descended a narrow stairway, then Fen was shoved into the cell he remembered from his first days in this place, though the blankets had been replaced and the gouges in the floor and walls had been painted over. It smelled musty and the paint odour stung his nostrils and eyes. He heard the man say a locking charm as soon as the door was closed.

Fen wrapped his arms around himself and tried to concentrate on examining the room, but there were no wall or floor coverings and no furnishings, just the pile of blankets. He did not want to sit there, so he stood in the middle of the space trying to ignore a queasy feeling in his stomach.

He was still standing there when the door was unlocked and Lyall Lupin opened it just enough to squeeze through. Fen’s jaw clenched, but before he could do more than curl his lip the shackles were on his wrists and ankles and the thin man was gone again.

Three days later Fen joined the other children at breakfast. Nothing was said about their time away from each other. They ate little, faces wan, sat through their lessons more quietly than usual, and went about their chores without any protest or argument. By the next day, their appetites had improved and Muriel was ordering them around again.

The routine repeated week in and week out until Fen could barely remember a time he did not live with Muriel’s bossy instruction, Alfred’s unassuming protectiveness, and Alice’s quiet optimism all chaperoned by Mr. Warden within the walls of the two-story townhouse. The monthly visits by the scarred man – Fen never did learn his name – and Lupin became familiar, though the pain of transformation never lessened.

The air outside the window of the barely-used front sitting room grew steadily colder until white frost ringed the window frame and fog blurred the view of the houses across the street. Then the cold abated as if winter, having gotten its claws into the city, decided to back off and wait to pounce on them again unawares. It was mild and wet for two weeks and the lingering damp did more to chill the bedroom Fen shared with Alfred than the frost.

Fen paused in the act of shelving the books he had removed to dust the single bookshelf in the sitting room, eyes on the grey misty rain outside. An owl swooped past the window, the first Fen had seen up close since his days at the warehouse, its feathers shiny with moisture.

At a high-pitched squeal, he spun on the spot, nearly dropping the book. He sniffed, but there was no indication of danger in the air. Then there was a second squeal as Alice raced into the room, her skirt flaring behind her and short blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders as she threw herself bodily at him.

He grunted as he absorbed the impact. “Alice, what …?”

Muriel and Alfred followed her into the room, stopping at the threshold with identical expressions of concern.

Alice whirled around, waving a piece of parchment. “They want me back!”

Fen felt his heart stutter. If her family wanted her back, maybe his mother would come looking for him, too.

Muriel’s face creased in a frown. “Who?”

“The family from Cripplegate. They found a new place and they want me to live with them again.”

“Are you going to go?”

Alice blinked. “Of course.”

Muriel crossed her arms. “Well, good luck, then.” She turned and left.

Alfred watched her go, then looked back at Alice. He came close enough to give her a quick hug. “When do you leave?”

“I’m supposed to be ready to go by suppertime.” She spun in a circle and clapped her hands before her smile faded. “I’m going to miss you all and Muriel, too.”

“Don’t worry about us.” Alfred lifted one shoulder and gave her a lopsided smile. “Muriel will take care of us.”

“I know.” Alice squeezed his hand. Then she did the same to Fen. The wide smile returned to her face. “Take care.” She waved and they heard her feet pounding up the stairs to her room to pack the few pieces of clothing that were hers along with her lesson notes and spare shoes.

Fen stared after her. “Do you think your family will want you back?” he asked Alfred.

“No.” The older boy grabbed Fen’s shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. “Those people are not her family. Our families are never going to want us around.” He gave Fen a little shake, though his thinner arms barely moved the heavier boy. “I’m going to check on Muriel.”

Fen watched him go, Alfred’s words alternating with Alice’s excited squeal in his mind.

~

It snowed on Christmas. Not the clean, white expanse of snow-covered meadow there would be at he farm, but a grey, soggy mess of puddles and drifts marred by dirty boot prints and tire tracks beyond the window.

Mr. Warden conjured a tree for the sitting room. Fen spent two afternoons twisting strands of coloured wool into decorations and one Saturday stringing glass beads onto twine to loop around the stiff green branches. They brought a little sparkle to the dull yellowish-green branches. If previous inmates had left decorations from other years, Warden chose not to share them.

On Christmas morning, Fen woke and lay in bed, staring at the cracked plaster of their bedroom ceiling. It was odd not to have to wriggle out of the blankets and dress quickly, shivering in the cold drafts. Even on weekends, breakfast was at 7:00 a.m. but today, Warden was not serving food until 10:00. Fen was not entirely sure if that was for their benefit or his, but was content to take advantage of the lie-in. The food would have more flavour today, too. Yesterday, someone had donated fruit to sweeten their porridge, somewhat mushy but not too overripe to eat, and a group of witches were bringing ham and creamed peas later for supper.

His mother would have baked pies and bread and there would be roast duck, carrots, potatoes, peas, sweetcorn, and Christmas pudding. His little sister would be awake before anyone, bouncing down the stairs to find a toy wrapped in a new dress or tucked inside a new pair of shoes beneath a fir tree their stepfather cut and levitated home. Right now, Nellie would be jumping on her bed, singing about whatever present she had found, her fingers sticky from candy. This would be their baby brother’s first Christmas. Fen wondered where Alice was and what she was doing right now with her foster family.

He turned his head on the pillow. Alfred lay still in his bed, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. Alfred met his gaze and they silently dressed and went down to breakfast.

All through their meal, Fen could not stop himself from listening carefully for the sound of an owl bringing a gift from his family. Or maybe a package could have been picked up with yesterday’s post and left under the conjured tree in the sitting room. He was the first one to leave the table, scared and excited to see if there might be presents in the sitting room.

The other children pushed past him into the room. Muriel sat in front of the tree, knees drawn up to her chest with her chin resting on them. Alfred sat beside her. She put an arm around him without looking away from the tree. There were no gifts.

As if she could smell his disappointment, she twisted her head to fix him with a derisive look. “Expecting something from your family?”

His heart pounded in his chest but he could not draw breath to deny it.

“You’ll learn. You’re as good as dead to them.” She and Alfred joined hands and he saw their knuckles whiten in a tight squeeze.

Slowly, he came forward and sat beside Muriel. Wordlessly, she reached for his hand and squeezed it.

~

Alfred turned 17 in March. Fen sat at the kitchen table as the older boy said his farewells. Lupin was there, though the full moon was two weeks away. He asked Alfred a series of rapid-fire questions and reminded him of the restrictions on where he could and could not live, how often he was expected to report to the Department for Regulation & Control of Magical Creatures, and penalties for non-compliance. Alfred stared at the floor, shoulders hunched around his ears, and nodded whenever Lupin paused in his speech. Then he left.

True to her word, Muriel disappeared one week later. Lupin came back, quizzing Fen about where she went and how she evaded their tracking charms, but he was unable to provide any explanation. Lupin eyed him suspiciously before leaving in frustration.

The next week a new inmate, a sullen 16-year-old, moved in who tried to escape his first night and spent the following weeks in the confinement cells.

That Tuesday, Fen turned 12 years old. He ate his breakfast of porridge alone at the table, worked through his chores, had supper, and went to bed in the room he had all to himself.

In April, seven months to the day since Fen arrived in the house, Lupin escorted him back to Mrs. Jackson’s. She raised her brows at how much he had grown and muttered about not having clothes that were big enough but otherwise made no comment on his return.

Pippin had left on his 17th birthday and a new boy, younger than Fen, was staying in what had been their room. His green eyes lit with excitement to find he had a roommate, but they had little time together. He was too young to join Fen for morning lessons and in the afternoon Fen was sent to the same warehouse Pippin worked at previously. The short man met him at the door and showed him where he would be loading crates into the back of a diesel truck driven by a wizard with dark glasses and a white scarf wrapped around his long neck.

From then on, Fen’s weeks were a routine of morning lessons and afternoon work Monday to Friday followed by Saturday and Sunday chores and interrupted once a month for three days spent behind a locked door in the cellar. After supper, his habit was to go into the alley and sit cross-legged on a wooden crate he had brought home where he was secluded from the street and the house. His sensitive nose, accustomed to the variety of potion ingredients and spoiled food that passed through the warehouse, barely twitched any more at the alley’s stench and it was cooler in the perpetual shade than it was inside Mrs. Jackson’s nearly-windowless house.

Here, he would practice the charms he had learned at lessons as well as try to recreate spells he had seen or heard of from others. Sometimes, he would bring home bits he had salvaged from damaged freight to experiment with, pieces small enough to fit in his pocket and not too smelly or wriggly, but it was difficult to invent potions without magical instruction. The schoolbook he used was old, the pages creased and torn and the language archaic. He wondered what he could have learned if he had been able to go to Hogwarts last year.

He could not see much of the sky and he wished he had the telescope his mother had purchased for him for school. It had been so long since he had seen stars and sun and moon unobstructed by buildings and smoky air. The thought of the moon sent a shiver down his spine.

In June, the younger boy went to a foster home and an even younger girl came to stay at Mrs. Jackson’s. She was nervous and jumpy, and her face was marred by criss-crossing scars which had barely healed. She never exchanged a word with Fen.

In July, he saw Pippin on the street outside the warehouse. As thin as the older boy had been before, his trousers now sagged on his bony hips and his collared shirt hung loosely off his shoulders. His gaze met Fen’s briefly before he turned and disappeared into a nearby alley. Fen wondered if Pippin still drew with his charcoal and his parchment.

At the end of August, Fen was taken to see the warehouse boss lady for the first time since their initial meeting. She was again sitting on her straight-backed chair in her office among metal file cabinets and parchment scrolls, short grey curls damp where perspiration glittered on her skin.

Fen stood quietly beside the short man until she looked up at them, leaned back, and steepled her fingers.

“You want to make some money for yourself?” she asked Fen.

Surprise washed through him. He knew the warehouuse paid for his labour, though he had no idea how much because the money went back to the Ministry to offset his board, but nothing more than an infrequent coin or two had come his way. He thought about the store on the corner he passed every day and the street vendors with their odd assortment of food and curios. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Freight don’t stop moving on the weekend.”

“You want me to work Saturdays?” Fen asked.

The woman fixed her gaze on him. “I got strong backs willing to work Saturdays even if we’ve adopted this ridiculous five-day work week.” She exchanged a glance with the short man who nodded commiseratingly. “I need someone to run freight to and from the stations on Sundays. You object to working Sundays?”

Fen shook his head.

“Good.” The woman leaned forward again and took up her quill. “Be here Sunday at nine.”

As requested, Fen reported to the warehouse Sunday after breakfast. A tall man wearing coarse navy blue shirt and trousers, like the short man wore on weekdays, met Fen and directed him to a pile of wooden boxes as high as Fen’s head. Together, they loaded them and thirteen oak barrels onto the back of a truck that looked too small to hold everything but had room to spare.

The tall man got into the driver’s seat and Fen got in the cab beside him, looking around curiously. He had never been inside an automobile. With a snap of the driver’s wand and a muttered spell, there was a vibration throughout the vehicle and a purplish cloud of smoke belched from the back. Fen coughed and blinked, then they shot forward, weaving among the collection of autos jostling along the streets.

In minutes, they squeezed into an unloading spot beside King’s Cross Station that appeared too narrow to accommodate the truck but had room for them just the same. They hopped out. The driver left instructions to Fen to wait beside the truck while he secured a trolley cart before he disappeared into the flow of people coming and going from the massive building.

Fen leaned against the tailgate, watching men in suits and ladies in heels and hats chatting in groups or hugging each other. A boy in short trousers sat on a trunk, hands on his bare knees. A group of four adults and five children passed by, discussing the 11:00 train. From the back, Fen could see that both men were carrying cages as well as trunks, one with an owl and one with a cat.

“Is this your first time?” the lady in a pink hat and purple dress asked.

The other woman wore a flower-print dress that was faded but clean. A few strands of brown hair escaped her kerchief. She had a toddler in her arms and held the hand of a little girl who looked around with wide eyes. “Yes.”

Fen felt his blood freeze in his veins. His eyes darted to the little girl’s face as she glanced back over her shoulder, two long blonde plaits swinging as she snapped her head this way and that. He could not draw in a breath.

“Nellie is my oldest.”

His lungs protested and Fen gasped for air, his blood now pounding in his ears and vision blurring. Straightening, he took a step forward and nearly stumbled at the shaking in his legs. He lifted his head. The group of adults and children passed through the entrance way into the station. Fen hurried forward, thankful he was tall enough to see through the crowd.

Inside the doors, he paused to look around, his breath coming thick and fast when he realized the group was nowhere in sight. Then a gap opened in the crowd and Fen saw the women had stopped to check their tickets and the men had bent over to set down the heavy trunks. Immediately, Nellie and another girl that appeared to be the same age dropped to their knees and snapped open one of the cases. _His_ case, Fen realized. The trunk he had packed one year ago.

Arms waving and high voices prattling, the two girls lifted something from Nellie’s trunk and oohed. He saw a telescope inside, the same telescope he had chosen for his first year of school. Beside it was a cauldron exactly like the one he had packed and he caught a glimpse of folded black robes.

Then the woman in the pink hat pointed toward platform 10 and her husband bent to retrieve the other trunk and the cage with the owl. Phineas snapped at Nellie and she slammed the case closed so he could pick it up. The girls got to their feet and followed as their mothers led the way further into the station.

His mother raised an arm, standing on tiptoe to get the attention of someone in the crowd. Another woman waved back and the boy at her side waved at Nellie. The sight of Eoin caused Fen to sink down dizzily to the hard floor, oblivious to the curses of a man who nearly tripped over him.

He sat there, trying to get his breathing under control, blinking furiously to clear the red veil in front of his eyes, waves of conversation around him fading into the roar in his ears. There were more curses as people avoided stepping on him and a woman scolded him as she rushed by. Fen paid no attention to any of them.

He should be there. That should be his trunk with his school supplies and his friend talking excitedly with him about new and wonderful things they would see and learn. _He_ was his mother’s oldest child, not Nellie. _He_ was the first one she should have taken to the platform to board the Hogwarts Express.

Abruptly, he shot to his feet and pushed his way through the people around him. He shoved aside a boy who yelped as a toad escaped his cupped hands. On the other side of the barrier between platforms nine and ten, Fen stopped dead. There were more curses sent his way, this time involving various parts of Merlin’s clothing or anatomy, but Fen did not look around even when someone ran into his back. His gaze was fixed on the sight of Nellie wrapped in his mother’s arms as they hugged goodbye.

There were tears on both their faces when they finally parted, hands clasped until Nellie had to pull away and jump on the train at the final call. A moment later, her face appeared at a window, pressed against the glass as she waved. Fen’s mother waved back, her hand slowly ceasing its motion as the train pulled away with a snort and a plume of black smoke.

Breaking from his trance, Fen took one step toward her before hands clamped on his shoulders and he was spun away with a sharp tug and a sickening jolt in his stomach.

~

Fen sat on the hard chair, staring straight ahead at the bare stone walls as Lyall Lupin paced in front of him. He had no idea how long the thin man had been snapping questions at him, none of which Fen had responded to, but from the ache in his stomach he guessed it had been several hours since breakfast. The shackles on his ankles and wrists chafed.

Lupin came to a standstill, blocking Fen’s view of the wall.

“What were you doing on platform 9 3/4? Your co-worker says you abandoned your post at the truck.”

Fen stared at the third button on Lupin’s long coat.

“You had no reason to be near that family. This is the second time you’ve threatened those people. This is serious trouble you’re in. Do you understand that?”

The coat was a dull grey and the button was black.

“Two chances you’ve had to live in a good home and you threw it back in our faces.”

Black thread fastened the black button to the dull grey fabric of the long coat.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”

The coat pulled against its buttons as Lupin put both hands on his hips. Fen did not respond. He remembered the hug his mother had given Nellie, then he remembered her white face a year ago when she told her daughter not to go near him. He remembered the shopping trip and packing his trunk and Nellie talking about getting a cat and Eoin showing him a spell. He thought about them both on the train, changing into their school robes, meeting friends.

He thought about Pippin’s thin face the last time he had seen him disappear into an alley and Alfred’s pinched features as he left his sister behind. He remembered Muriel sneering that to their families they were as good as dead.

“You leave us no choice,” Lupin said. His long coat flapped around his legs as he spun. Then the door to the room closed behind him.

Fen sat on his hard chair and stared at the bare stone wall.

~

They took him to another building, to another cellar, with another empty stone wall. They never removed the shackles that bound his hands together and his feet together. The new room had a woolen blanket, faded and stretched, but no bed. They brought him food and water seven times, which probably meant seven days passed. Fen slept most of the time, or simply sat on the blanket and stared at the wall. There was a crack in the stone at knee level and sometimes a spider came or went through the crack. He felt the change coming on and food delivery stopped for three days, then began again.

He counted five more days before a different man showed up, one who wore a long green cloak which was tight across the shoulders and bulged slightly around his arms. Fen did not look up from where he sat on the cold stone floor. His trousers and shirt had been ripped by his claws and teeth and the scratches on his arms and legs itched. There was nothing left of the single blanket.

“Fenrir, is it?” the man asked, though it sounded more like a demand than a question.

Fen did not answer.

The man stepped nearer and bent toward Fen, then pain exploded across his cheekbone. He stared up at the man’s close-set black eyes and touched his cheek gingerly. Black bristles sprouted from the man’s upper lip and chin but his forehead was bare and shiny. Fen could see one black hair sticking out of the man’s wide, flat nose.

“You’ll answer me when I talk, boy.”

“Yes.” Fen’s voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat.

The man gave a nod as he straightened. “Get up.” He tossed a bundle of clothing down.

Fen got to his feet. Blood rushed to his legs causing them to tingle but he ignored the pins and needles as he dressed. The man led the way up a set of stone steps. When they reached the top, his thick hand wrapped around Fen’s scratched and bitten arm, then his stomach lurched as they Apparated.

The man released his arm and Fen stumbled when they landed in an alley. Without a glance backward, the man shoved open a door and entered a narrow entryway lit by a single guttering candle. Fen followed and turned to shut the door. He had to push with both hands to loosen it from where it had wedged against the floor and shove it closed, cutting off any light except the feeble candle.

The corridor the man had disappeared down was even darker, but a room at the far end spilled light and smoke into the hallway. Fen hurried in that direction, stopping in the doorway for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Inside the room were three desks, two of which were occupied, and a long table which contained a few sheets of parchment, a bottle of ink, and four tattered books behind which the man stood waiting for Fen. He gestured at the empty desk.

The other two people looked up at Fen. One girl had a face bisected by a line of old scar tissue which her lank brown hair was too short to hide. The other stared at Fen with brown eyes wide beneath her black fringe. Fen blinked back, surprised to see Muriel. Her hair was cut short, barely reaching her chin, and her cheeks were hollow.

“What are you waiting for? Sit, boy,” the man snapped.

Heart pounding, Fen dropped into the empty chair and folded his hands on the desktop.

The man slammed a hand down on the table and they all jumped. “You, girl, are you finished your lines?”

Muriel held out a piece of parchment the length of her arm covered in neat, even handwriting. The man grunted, took the sheet, glanced at it, and tossed it on the table behind him.

“And you.” The man turned to the girl with the scarred face. “Did you memorize that passage?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then we’ll pick up where we left off.” He narrowed his eyes at Fen. “I expect you to keep up. I know you lot are a bit thick but I won’t tolerate slackards. You’ll put in an honest effort or suffer the consequences.”

Fen nodded. When the man turned to pick up one of the books on the table, Fen exchanged a glance with Muriel. She gave a tiny shake of her head and turned to face the man, giving every appearance of listening intently. Fen followed her lead.

After the lessons, each child was given an apple spotted with brown and a glass of water. Then they were taken to another brightly lit room with three wooden stools and lined with foul-smelling weathered wooden casks, several of which oozed either noxious steam or blood. The man held out three knives with short blades and stained handles.

A shiver crawled up Fen’s spine and his stomach clenched as bile rose up his throat. Each girl collected a knife, took up a seat on one of the stools, and reached into the full barrel in the middle of the room to pluck out its contents.

“Bats,” Muriel mouthed at the other girl who sighed in response.

The man shoved Fen toward the other stool. “You take ’em out one at a time, then put the wings in that cask there –” he indicated an empty barrel between the two girls “– the eyes in there –” he pointed to a row of glass jars on the floor “– and the feet in there.”

Muriel dropped four tiny paws into the indicated cask.

“You watch them work and you’ll learn as quickly as your kind is able.”

Fen swallowed hard. He took the last knife from the man’s hand, refusing to allow his own hand to shake, and settled on the third stool before he reached in to draw out a furry little body with limp leathery wings.

Muriel turned slightly so he could see how she dismembered the creature. With her back to the man, she whispered, “Better work fast.”

Fen set to work as quickly as he could, feeling the man’s glare on the back of his neck. After he had fumbled his way through a few of the dead bats, he heard the man’s boots retreat.

Muriel took the creature he was currently mauling from his hands. “You do the wings and legs and I’ll get the eyes; it’ll be quicker that way. The more we get done, the more we’ll get for supper and the less he’ll be inclined to take a swipe at one of us.” She lifted a sleeve and showed a fading purple bruise on her forearm.

Fen touched his sore cheek and nodded.

“The first time we had to skin squirrels we only got half a dozen done and he yelled that they were too butchered to be worth a knut anyway,” the other girl said. “We didn’t get any supper at all that night, or breakfast next morning, either.”

“What does he want this stuff for?” Fen asked.

“Gets paid by some store in Knockturn Alley to process their ingredients.” Muriel shrugged without pausing in her work. She dismembered the legs and cut out the eyes in the time it took Fen to pull the wings off the next bat. “Don’t know what he gets paid but we get a knut a day and he gets a bottle of firewhiskey every evening. I keep the knuts under a loose floorboard in my room. He drinks the firewhiskey and snores all night.”

“If we’re lucky,” the scarred girl mumbled.

“This here is Gerta, Fen.”

He exchanged a greeting with scar-faced the girl.

“What are you doin’ in this place?” Muriel asked. “Thought you’d do your time with Warden and be back at Mrs. Jackson’s.”

“I was.” Fen hunched over the next bat, ripping the wings so hard that one tore.

“Careful,” Gerta hissed. “He won’t get paid for that one and he’ll take it out on us.”

Muriel paused for a moment and eyed him. “Did you go mental again and try to get back to your family?”

His hand shook. “No.” He waited until the trembling eased before cutting into the next carcass.

Muriel had dismembered two bats in the same amount of time.

“I saw my mother and sister by accident.” He sliced off the wings of the next and handed the remainder to Muriel. He did two more before saying anything else.

“They said I was threatening ’em and dragged me here.”

“Oh.”

The girls worked in tandem, Muriel slicing off the feet and eyes of Fen’s bat and one of her own as Gerta dismembered another. Occasionally, one or the other would pause to wipe her hands on her stained skirt.

“Where’s Alfred?”

Muriel’s gaze flicked to the open doorway and back to Fen. “Safe,” she said under her breath. “I sneak out of here once a week and take him my wages. Usually don’t get caught, either.” She exchanged a glance with Gerta. “When I do, no skin off my nose because there’s no worse place they can send me. Just lock me up for a few days, then put me back to work again.”

“The doors are locked?” Fen asked.

Muriel snorted. “Yeah, they are. Locking charm and anti-Alohomora, too, but I got the counter spell. They still don’t know how I do it.” She winked at Gerta.

Fen turned wide eyes on the scarred girl. When she grinned, only the left half of her mouth turned up.

“How’s Alfred doing?” Fen remembered Pippin’s emaciated form and wondered if Alfred had fared any better after he aged out.

Muriel frowned. “Damn near starved. He gets a job, then one week or two weeks or three weeks in he has to be gone for a few days and they figure out what he is. Can’t get rid of him quick enough after that. Has to move around a lot but Regulation & Control don’t like us to move, they want us in one spot, so they come down hard on him for not staying in one place.”

“Is that why you give him all your wages?”

“Yeah.”

Fen tried to imagine Nellie taking care of him like that. The last time she had seen him she had hugged him, but when their mother called her away she had stood there and looked at him with confusion and fear.

“How was your sister?” Muriel asked quietly. “When you saw her by accident?”

He shrugged. “Happy. On her way to school.” A school he would never be allowed near. He held out the next bat carcass.

Before taking it, Muriel squeezed his hand. They worked in silence for a few minutes.

“Was she there when you …”

“No, she wasn’t.” Fen cocked his head. Wasn’t Muriel the one who said they never talked about how they were turned? “Were you and Alfred together? Is that why you both … were infected?”

She shook her head. “I was attacked, a friend and I. She died but they got there in time to save me. Don’t know why they bothered.” She kept talking without slowing her work. “Al tracked me to the foster home I was sent to. The rest of our family didn’t know, but he kept in touch with me. When the man in the home started in on me, I couldn’t hide it from Al. He tried to report the abuse, but the man denied it and no one was going to believe me over him. So Al arranged to sneak into the house where I was staying and hid in the cellar the first night of a full moon. He had already studied unlocking charms at school, so all he had to do was figure out how to get around the anti-unlocking charm and let me out. He knew they’d be alerted as soon as I was out but that would be enough time for me to attack him.”

Fen’s heart skipped a beat. “You attacked him?”

She narrowed her gaze. “You know we can’t control what happens after the change. We both knew what would happen and I told him not to but he was willing to bet they’d rescue him in time to save his life.” Her knuckles whitened around the hilt of the knife. “Which they did. The man was terrified of us both after that and he told them to find me another foster home.” She finished plucking the eyes from a bat and reached for the next. “We couldn’t force them to let us stay in the same home after Al was turned, but we got lucky. They sent us both to Warden’s and we were there together until Al aged out. Before he left, we worked out a way to communicate. We had a couple months together basically living on the street, then I got caught stealing food from a store and ended up here. They can’t keep us from contacting each other, though.”

Fen stared at her so long that Gerta elbowed him and pointed to the barrel still three-quarters full of dead bats. Mechanically, he began picking them out, slicing off the wings, and passing along the carcasses. No one said anything more, and against the repetitive noise of their work his mind whirled with the idea that Alfred had deliberately arranged to become a werewolf. It was a simple matter of being in close enough proximity at the right time.

Of course, luck would play a part because once in werewolf form it was impossible to control who would become a victim and there was a risk of death rather than infection. But still, it was possible. Alfred had _done that_ so he and his sister could be together; so they had family. Because that was what family did for each other.


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm a young lover's rage, gonna need a spark to ignite_

~chap 3~

Fen leaned against a brick wall butted up against the cobblestoned street and crossed his feet at the ankles in the scuff of dirty snow. The cold of the wall leeched through his denim jacket and shirt. He took a bottle from the pocket of his straight-cut jacket, pulled out the stopper, and downed a gulp of amber liquid. Warmth trailed down his throat into his stomach. Despite being only sixteen, the burn was familiar and comforting. Before he could recork the bottle and tuck it away, a figure emerged from an alleyway into the street.

He was likewise dressed in straight-cut denim jacket and trousers, but where Fen’s jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, the slumped form across the street was buried in folds of dark blue fabric with the sleeves rolled up above bony wrists. His jeans sagged on bony hips with a stained white shirt half-tucked into the waistband. He walked with shuffling steps, head down and hands jammed into the pockets of the loose trousers. Despite his air of obliviousness, his head snapped up the moment Fen started toward him

Fen stopped in front of the other man, waiting for a sign of recognition. None came.

“Wotcher want?” The voice was as thin and reedy as the hunched figure. His eyes were pale and watery.

“I’m a friend.” The bottle of whiskey was still in Fen’s hand. Moving slowly, he held it out.

The watery eyes tracked down to the bottle and then up again before the man squinted and leaned closer to peer at Fen. “Do I know yeh?”

“You do.” Fen shook the bottle. “Have a drink, Pippin.”

At the sound of his name, the man jerked back, staring at Fen.

“It’s good whiskey. Pinched it from a man who runs the group home I live in.” Who would never miss one bottle because he would be too deep into the potions by now to know where he put his own wand.

“Fen?” Pippin asked doubtfully, looking him up and down.

“Long time.” This time when Fen shook the bottle, Pippin took it.

The skinny man pulled out the stopper and downed six swallows before he wiped his mouth with the back of a skeletal hand and offered it back. “Wotcher want from me after all these years?”

“Can’t a man offer a friend a drink without strings?”

“Not around here.” Pippin looked to the wall where Fen had been leaning. “Yeh been waitin’ fer me?”

“Wanted to invite you to join us.” Fen gestured down the lane.

Pippin pushed pale, tangled hair out of his face and looked in the direction Fen had pointed, then back at Fen, then down at the bottle in Fen’s hand. Finally he nodded. Pulling his jacket tighter against the cold wind, he followed Fen.

~

* * *

Conversation ceased in the room and everyone looked up. Fen shut the door behind Pippin, blocking out the misty swirl of ice-cold air.

“Who’s this?” Muriel asked, gaze fixed on the newcomer.

“He’s one of us.” Fen brushed past Pippin to come further into the room and take the chair beside her, setting the whiskey bottle on the table and putting his arm across the back of her chair. “This is Pippin. Pippin, this here is Muriel, Alfred, and Fergal.”

Each of them nodded in turn. Alfred and Fergal resumed their dice game at the table in the corner of the room, rubbing their hands to warm them. Muriel leaned back in her chair and watched narrowly as Pippin took a seat opposite them. Her silky black hair brushed against Fen’s arm.

“Warm yourself.” Fen used his wand to levitate a broken, weathered board into the fireplace. Peeling bits of paint snapped and blackened in the fire.

Muriel helped herself to the whiskey, taking one long swig and setting it back down in front of Fen without taking her eyes off Pippin. He scrutinized her in turn, then ran his gaze over the two men in the corner, sniffing the air.

“Wha’s this, then?” Pippin asked, gesturing around the room.

“The Organization for the Protection and Emancipation of Werewolves,” Muriel stated.

Fen looked at her. “How’d you come up with that?”

She tilted her head. “The Association for Monster Rights?”

“You have to pick something so the letters spell out a word,” Alfred said, watching as Fergal rolled the dice.

“What word?”

“BITE.”

They all laughed. Muriel was pretty when she laughed. Fen ran a hand down her cheek and tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear.

“You still in a home?” Pippin asked Fen, looking him up and down.

“For another month.” Fen took another swallow of whiskey and passed the bottle to Muriel. “I’ll age out after the next full moon. Then I’ll move in here permanent.” He grinned and kissed the side of Muriel’s neck.

She jammed her elbow into his side. “What makes you think I want you here?”

He grabbed her arm and yanked her closer, bending down to press a hard kiss on her mouth, pleased when she returned the kiss even harder and stuck her tongue in his mouth.

She shoved him back again. “What about when I have a customer? I can’t bring them here if your ugly face is going to scare them off.”

“You won’t have to work. I’ll get a job dismembering bats and make enough money to feed both of us.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes and pushed at his chest. She had nice hands.

She sobered and turned to lean back against him, her eyes going to her brother. “Our kind can’t get steady work. Wizards don’t want us around.” She held out her hand and examined the nails, long and yellow. “Well, most of them don’t. Sometimes a customer wants me to growl and bite him. Or her.”

Fen bit back the bile rising in his throat. He wished she didn’t have to put up with the crap some wizards and witches put her through for a few sickles. He wished they could live in the country, some place near his sister, and grow food and hunt ducks and fish and never have to see this dismal city again, but Ministry regulations demanded they remain under surveillance and surveillance was not available outside certain districts.

His teeth clenched. Besides, as soon as any of their country neighbours found out what they were they wouldn’t be allowed to stay anyway. For just a moment, he vaguely remembered his mother cowering from him clutching his baby brother and little sister. He shook his head to clear the image. If only there weren’t so many wizards and so few werewolves, it would be possible to escape their control.

“You all live here?” Pippin asked.

“We help each other,” Muriel told him.

“We make sure everyone has food and whatever else they need,” Fen added. He wondered if Pippin would need a supply of Draught of Peace like Alfred did. Both of them were thin and pale, even for werewolves.

The potion was getting more expensive and harder to come by. Fergal said they taught the recipe at Hogwarts, but since he had been infected before he could start fifth year, he had no idea what the recipe was. Gerta had bragged that she could figure it out. She had come close, too. Her potion had been a brilliant turquoise, the exact shade of blue they knew it should be. She took a deep drink and her entire body relaxed as if every worry had dripped out into the earth leaving a peaceful smile on her face. Then her eyes had drooped shut, she slumped to the floor, and nothing they did woke her up again.

“If there’s work to be had, we let the others know and if there’s another kind of job, we help each other with that, too.” Muriel exchanged a wink with Fergal.

Fergal had been approached about obtaining a collection of dark artifacts from a mansion with particularly intricate locking spells which Muriel had been able to break. That one job had earned them all enough to eat and drink for a month.

“Watcha want from me?” Pippin asked. “I don’t got money. Been two months since I had any work.”

“Your loyalty.” Fen leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table between them. “We’ll help you, share what we have when we have it.” He pushed the bottle closer to Pippin. “In turn, you help us when you can.”

Pippin held his gaze for a moment, then looked at Muriel, then Alfred and Fergal. Muriel returned his stare steadily, raised one black brow, and simply waited. The men had paused their dice game and were watching Pippin’s reaction.

He picked up the bottle, took a swig, and set it down. He nodded and stretched out his hand. “We need all the friends we can get.”

Fen reached across the table to grip Pippin’s emaciated hand in his thick fingers. “We do.”

~

* * *

Fen lifted the last barrel into the back of the truck and lowered his wand. He flexed his arm muscles, easing the burn from hours of loading freight at the same warehouse where he had worked as a child. The truck fired up with a cloud of purple smoke and pulled away to make its delivery.

There were fancy parties going on all over the city waiting to be supplied with copious amounts of imported wine and whiskey, and since the usual workers were holed up with their own supply of cheap booze, Fen had been hired for the day. He had alerted Pippin and Alfred, who had gladly signed on as well for a day’s wages and were in the process of making a delivery somewhere in Wiltshire.

There had been a dust-up at the Ministry which resulted in whispers of several members of the Wizengamot resigning simultaneously. Wizards and witches were huddled in restaurants and bars all over the city, some even on the streets in clumps of purple and green robes, either celebrating or protesting. Fen had seen two groups lined up on opposite sides of a street yelling back and forth about the new Minister for Magic; one group called the other radical subversives intent on the destruction of wizarding society and the others responded with accusations of prejudiced bigotry. Fen had overheard something about a muggle-born Minister but that could not be right because no muggle-born would be elected to such an important position.

He swiped his left arm across his forehead, wiping away sweat and pushing damp hair out of his eyes, and looked up the street where the truck was disappearing from view. The driver suddenly honked loudly and swerved left. A woman shouted and dived to the right. She landed on her hands and knees on the dusty cobblestones. She lifted her head and swore at the vanished truck, then crawled to the edge of the street, huddled against the brick wall of a building, and dropped her head onto her drawn-up knees.

Her short hair was somewhere between blond and brown, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. Her arms were thin and her dress hung limply from thin shoulders. The skirt was faded; it might have been pink printed with purple flowers but looked mostly brown, ripped and grimy from her fall. Fen sniffed. There was something familiar about her.

He walked in her direction. She lifted her head at the sound of his hobnailed boots hitting the cobbles, one arm lifted as if to protect herself. The left side of her face was greenish-blue where a bruise the size of a man’s hand was fading.

Her eyes widened. “Fen?”

~

 

Muriel did not hesitate to make room for Alice when Fen brought her back to their rooms. Once she was fed and had a few sips of whiskey, she told them what had happened since she returned to her foster home with so much excitement.

“They were good, but there was another wizard, a friend of theirs. He … wasn’t nice. They didn’t believe me, said I was making it up, so I was moved to another home and then another. Finally I aged out. Been living on the streets since.” She lifted tear-stained blue eyes and shared a look of understanding with Muriel. Then she turned to Fen. “Thanks for finding me.”

Impotent anger curled in his gut. He would have found her sooner if he had known, if he had had any inkling she was unhappy. He had not attempted to track her down because he thought she was settled with her foster family.

Alice leaned her head on Muriel’s shoulder and let the older girl wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I hate wizards. I hate all of them.”

~

 

Fen stroked Muriel’s long black hair. She murmured in her sleep and snuggled her warm, naked body closer to his side. In the other corner of the room, separated by a blanket used as a curtain, Alfred and Alice snored softly.

Fen could not sleep. The problem was, there were so many wizards and so few werewolves. Fergal knew others, older werewolves, but most had been turned after they reached adulthood and they agreed with the restrictions on their movements. They had almost as much trouble finding and holding employment, but had already received their education and therefore were able to earn more at better jobs. They made no protest at being registered as creatures to be controlled. Some even volunteered to search out others of their kind and make sure their identities were recorded and their movements monitored.

Without families or schooling, it was harder for Fen and Pippin and Alfred and Muriel and Alice. If only there were enough werewolves, especially ones who had been turned as children; if they all banded together, wizards would be unable to abuse them. They would be autonomous.

He kissed Muriel’s forehead. Her eyelashes fluttered but she did not wake. If more people made the sacrifice Alfred had made, they could achieve freedom together. They could be a real family.

~

 

Full moon Tuesday, 17 July, 1962

Lyall Lupin would arrive soon to confirm they had restrained themselves. First he had to make his rounds of the children’s homes to lock up those werewolves he was responsible for who were underage. When Fen had first left the home, he hoped a different Ministry officer would be assigned to his case and he would never have to see Lupin’s pinched face again. Now, he was glad it was Lupin, the same man who had let a werewolf escape six years ago for long enough to attack Fen. It had been an accident last time, this time it would be planned, but the fault would be Lupin’s. Again.

Timing was of utmost importance. If Fen did not avoid detection long enough, Lupin and others of the Beast Division would track him down before the change began; if he avoided detection too well, the victim would be killed rather than infected. He had to be free and in position at the time of the change and he would have to isolate the victim so his werewolf form fixated on her. Again, it was a delicate balance: be secluded enough to shorten the list of possible victims to one, but not so secluded that she would be dead before they found her.

Fen felt the usual prickling beneath his skin, his nose almost constantly twitching as his keen sense of smell sharpened further, and wincing at noises that echoed in his ears louder than usual. Alfred sat at the table across from Fergal, both ignoring the dice between them and simply staring at the bare wooden walls. Pippin and Alice were snogging behind the blanket curtain that separated their sleeping space from the rest of the room, panting like dogs and the sickly sweet scent of their arousal was adding to the tension in the room. Thankfully, the summer had been relatively cool or it would be sweltering in the small space with seven of them, especially in their restlessness and queasiness pre-change.

It was time to go. Fen had his hand on the doorknob when Muriel’s small hands grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face her.

She reached up to cradle his face in her palms. “Are you sure about this?” Her face was drawn, pallid and lined as they all were this time of the month.

He took her hands in his and squeezed lightly. “Yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back soon.”

Her brow creased below her black fringe but she nodded. He leaned his forehead against hers, then stepped away and spun on the spot. Apparition aggravated the sick sensation in his gut, but it was necessary to travel quickly and secretly. The Ministry would never licence any of them to Apparate but there was little they could do to stop them.

He landed on the lane in front of the farmhouse. A boy Fen did not know was digging in the dirt of the yard. For a moment, Fen panicked that his family had moved, that he had taken this risk for nothing and would never find his sister. Then a girl with dark blonde hair came out to usher the little boy into the house.

Her hair was no longer plaited instead, it hung loose over her ears to end in curls around her neck. She crouched in the dirt beside the six-year-old, admiring his earthwork, then held out a hand to take him inside. The boy shook his head, holding his hands behind his back so she could not grasp them. Nellie took advantage of his unguarded belly to tickle him, laughing as the boy broke down in fits of giggles and tried to squirm away.

The sound of his sister’s laughter caused a painful twist of longing in Fen’s gut. The girlish twitter he barely recalled was deeper and more melodious but unmistakably his sister’s.

When she ceased tickling, the little boy gave her a hug and she swatted him affectionately on his backside. She watched him as he headed into the house, then brushed off her skirt and stood staring into the distance. She had not noticed Fen yet, but once she turned her head toward the lane she would see him standing there.

He glanced at the sky. Sunset was about an hour away, still early for his plans. He had expected to have to sneak inside and get Nellie’s attention somehow without alerting the rest of the family, but this opportunity to speak to her alone was too precious to waste. He began walking closer.

At the sound of his heavy boots hitting the packed dirt, she started and spun to face him. He stopped a few arms’ lengths away and smiled.

She smiled back. “Hello.” She was taller than he remembered, though still much shorter than he was. Her hips were wider, her chest filled out, and she had grown into her gangly arms and legs. Her eyes were the same green, like his, along with the thick eyebrows and square jaw they had both inherited.

“Hello, Nellie.”

She tilted her chin. “Do I know you?”

His heart lurched. He had hoped she would recognize him.

His disappointment must have shown on his face because she took a step closer and held out her hand. “I’m sorry I don’t remember your name. Do we go to school together?”

School. She had finished five years of school already, a place he would never be allowed to see. He shook his head as he took her hand.

“Do you want to come in? There’s pie left.”

His breath caught in his throat. How many years had it been since he had eaten pie? His mother made the best crust, he remembered that. His mouth watered despite the faint nausea. But it would be foolish to risk being seen by adults; besides, they should go. “No. I was hoping you could join me for a walk.”

She frowned. “I don’t think I can. Mum is waiting inside for me.”

She tried to pull her hand out of his grip but he tightened his hold. Her green eyes clouded with fear and she tugged harder. He wondered where she kept her wand. Since she was underage, she was not allowed to use magic outside of school so perhaps she did not carry it with her.

He started across the yard heading away from the house, pulling her with him. There were no windows that faced this direction and they would soon be past the row of spindly trees that lined the yard. Nellie would probably be afraid until he could explain things.

“What are you doing?” She twisted her arm, trying to escape his grip. “Who are you?”

He looked back over his shoulder and smiled in anticipation. “Your brother.”

Her eyes went wide and she opened her mouth but he clamped his other hand over the lower half of her face. She was still frightened, believing lies she had been told, but soon she would be his sister again. He hoped she and Muriel would become close friends.

As they moved out of sight of the farmhouse, her struggles grew more frantic, alternately trying to twist out of his grip or pry his hand from her mouth. He let go of her hand and grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up so her feet were off the ground. She kicked at his legs, grabbing at his arms to loosen his hold and her nails dug into his skin through his shirt. He remembered the spell Lupin had used to hold him still. He wondered if Nellie had learned it at school. It was not a charm he had been taught at lessons in the children’s home.

He cut across the fields, past the duckpond, until he was in a low area ringed by trees where the ground was too boggy for planting. No one had any reason to be nearby at dusk in the middle of July. He looked at the sky again. Sunset was still many minutes away, and the change would not take effect until full dark. He hoped it would take at least that long for Lupin to realize Fen had slipped his leash, especially with his friends’ planned distractions, and then to organize pursuit.

His sister continued struggling, though her twisting had lessened and her grip on his arm weakened. He took his hand away from her face. She screamed. He dropped her on the soft ground which knocked the breath out of her and cut off her scream as she fell to her hands and knees.

She turned her head to look up at him. There were tears in her eyes but her mouth was set in a grim line. “You’re not my brother. My little brother is safe in the house with our parents.”

Fen leaned down. “I’m your _older_ brother.”

“He died.”

Fen snapped back. He looked down his nose at her, still on her knees in the dirt. “I’m not dead.” Denied, abandoned, forgotten even, but not dead. They had 'lied to her and kept his sister from him.

She rocked back on her heels to stare at his face, studying his features. “He died years ago.” Her gaze tracked him up and down, her smooth brow furrowed. She shook her head, put both hands to her head and grasped handfuls of dark blonde hair, refusing to look at him any longer. “Fen’s dead.”

He looked down at her bent head. “I’m not. They lied.”

She shook her head again, hands still gripping her hair, eyes squeezed shut. “No. I saw him. I saw –” She froze. For a long moment she was still, then she began to tremble. Her hands fell to her side and she slowly lifted her head to stare at him. Her eyes were wider than he had yet seen and the blood had drained from her face. “If you’re Fen, then you’re a … a …”

She tried to scramble backward.

He grabbed her by both arms and lifted her to her feet. She looked scared. It was the same fear he had seen in their mother’s eyes. He shook her. “I’m your brother. You’re my sister. You have no reason to be afraid.”

“But …” She looked up at the darkening sky. Her trembling increased until her teeth chattered. She began to slump.

He gripped her arms harder and held her up. “Once it’s over, we’ll be brother and sister again. They won’t be able to keep us apart. I’ll take care of you.” Like Alfred and Muriel.

Nellie slipped further and he pulled her up again.

“No,” she whispered.

He shook her slightly. Her head bobbed on her neck. “We’ll be together. You can meet my friends; Muriel will take care of you. You can teach us what you learned in school and we’ll teach you how to survive. We’ll all take care of each other.”

“No,” she said more loudly. Then, “No!”

He opened his mouth but just then the pain began. He let go of her as he felt the familiar burning through his joints. He heard her run. He smelled which direction she had gone. He dropped to all fours, screaming out his agony to the moon.

~

* * *

It was cold; much colder than any room he had ever been in. He sat up gingerly on the bare stone floor, rolling his shoulders and flexing wrists and ankles. This was a room he had never seen before. A wave of despair rolled over him. He gasped but could not draw in air. Shivering so hard his teeth rattled, his head dropped into his hands.

“Nellie! Stay away from it,” his mother’s voice cried.

His head snapped up. “Mum?”

She was standing in front of him, white-faced and shaking. “You’re not Fen. You’re not my son.”

Her image wavered, and then Nellie was standing there, the older Nellie with loose blonde hair and frightened green eyes. “You’re dead. Go away.” She screamed. He tried to block the piercing pain stabbing his ears.

Then she was wearing a tattered black cloak which entirely covered her body except her hands. She reached for him with grey-skinned skeletal fingers glistening with scabs. He flinched away. Her mouth was open in a scream but there was no mouth and no sound except her rattling breath. Empty eye sockets stared back from beneath the black hood.

He cowered against the rock wall, hands over his head to block out the visions. “I’m not dead, I’m not dead. It’s me, it’s Fen.”

“Shut up, boy.” Pain exploded from the side of Fen’s face. Sticky warmth trickled from the corner of his mouth.

He curled in on himself further, wetness freezing to his cheeks.

“My boy is gone.” His mother’s voice was frightened. “You’re a monster, not my son.”

“My brother died.” Nellie’s voice was a little girl again. She screamed.

“You’ll do as I say, boy.” Fen felt his nose break.

He heard the rattling breath again, fading as it moved further away.

Once the freezing cold despair was gone, memory returned. The full moon shone on swampy ground ringed by trees. His ears pricked and his nose twitched. Something two-legged was running, breath coming in gasps. He could smell fear and warm blood. He leapt forward in pursuit.

His quarry was near when he scented more two-legged prey. He paused and sniffed. A growl issued from his throat as his head twisted this way and that. They were in all directions.

Then he howled in pain, twisting to snap at the glowing projectile lodged in his flank. His jaws snapped on it but could not grip the insubstantial green glow. He howled again, trying in vain to close his teeth on the arrow made of light.

The ground beneath his feet shifted and rolled and suddenly he was lying on the dirt, tongue lolling. Footsteps came closer. His vision blurred, but he could see a grey coat with black buttons. He tried to growl.

The figure in the long coat crouched down beside him. “You are a soulless, evil creature deserving of nothing but death. Unfortunately, you will not be killed, not yet.”

Fire licked along his veins from his flank through his entire body and then all was dark.

Huddled against the cold stone, Fen slowly lifted his head to stare around the bare, empty room, sniffing. He brushed shaking fingers across his mouth, but there was no blood. He gingerly touched his nose, then his cheek, but there were no broken bones or bruises. His breath puffed in white clouds. A growl rumbled in his throat.

 _Azkaban_. They had brought him to this mist-shrouded island and thrown him in this cold cell for three years. He had failed. Lupin had once again taken him away from his family.

~

 

On the third day Fen saw a human being. There had been no food and no water in those three days. His arms were bitten and scratched, fresh wounds over scabs, and his tongue was swollen. His heart beat rapidly and his breath came in pants. He was dizzy and weak, more so than usual for the time after the change. He did not have the strength to rise, though the stone floor was white with frost along one wall and he could no longer feel his fingers or cheek where they touched the stone. His clothes were shredded, there was no bedding, and he was beyond shivering.

When the door to the cell opened, he could do no more than roll his head sideways to see if it was another nightmare or if the heavy footsteps meant a real person had come. There were three sets of black boots on the threshold. They came closer until a boot took up his entire field of vision, black leather with silver buckles. Fen felt hands grip his arms and legs and then the walls began to move and blur.

The walls stopped spinning when he was dropped to the ground on his back, staring up at torchlight. There was a rattle like iron bars being pushed aside, then he felt himself dragged further before the boots left his line of vision with another rattle of iron bars.

Smells permeated the room, causing his empty stomach to roil. The scent of fear and despair was intense, mingled with sweat, vomit, urine, and feces. He could smell mould and rot as well, both plant and flesh.

When he eventually had the strength to lift his head, he found himself in a room larger than any house. The floor was dirt, the nearest wall was rough stone, and the ceiling was so high he could barely discern rafters in the dimness. There were no windows; the only light came from a torch burning beyond the iron bars of the door.

There was no furniture. Singly and in groups, other prisoners sat on the dirt with their heads in their hands, cowered against the wall, or paced the wide expanse. Fen could not see how far back the room stretched into darkness but he could hear sobbing, moaning, and an occasional howl of pain from beyond the reach of the faint torchlight.

A whiff of something resembling food reached his nose. He rolled over onto his stomach, then pushed himself to his hands and knees. He sniffed again. A bottom section of the door’s iron bars dissolved into smoke and a dozen tin pails were levitated inside the vast room before the bars reformed. Many of those in the room were too wrapped in misery or pain to take notice of the delivery, but a few of those closest moved toward the door.

Two men in black robes not yet torn or rotted inspected the pails. One tipped the pail with a thin, shaking hand just enough to sniff the contents which sloshed at the movement. He turned his head and gagged. The other man pushed him aside and reached in to pluck something from the liquid in the pail. He put it in his mouth, chewed, then choked and spat it out.

“Damn near raw,” he muttered.

Fen’s eyes fixed on the chunk of meat, red with blood. He crawled closer, yanked the pail from the man’s thin hands, and tipped the contents down his throat. The liquid was tepid with a flavour like iron, but he drank half the contents before pausing to fish out the reddish-black chunks floating on top. He swallowed several, barely taking time to chew.

When the edge of his hunger and thirst abated, he looked up to find the other two men watching him with a mixture of horror and speculation. He gave them a wolfish grin and licked his lips.

One wizard turned up his nose and edged away.

The other put on a false smile. “Hey, mate. Just arrived?”

He had no desire to engage in conversation with these wizards. “No. Had a private room.” He pulled a second pail closer and fished out several chunks of near-raw meat.

The two wizards exchanged a glance.

The one who had spoken took a step closer, betraying barely a flinch as Fen gulped down the uncooked meal. “Name’s Avery. This here’s Lestrange.”

Fen licked his fingers and grinned to show as many teeth as possible. The one named Lestrange sidled even further away.

Avery only grimaced. “We’re Knights.”

Fen wondered if fatigue had affected his hearing. “Nights? What d’ you mean you’re nights?”

“The Knights of Walpurgis,” Avery said as if the name should mean something.

Fen shrugged and turned his attention back to the pail. A few of the other prisoners were lucid enough to realize something resembling food had arrived. One tried to grab the pail in Fen’s hands and he snatched it away, growling. The man backed off and elbowed someone else away from another pail.

“Think you might want to meet a fella we know,” Avery said.

“Wizard?” Fen asked.

“Best wizard ever lived.”

“Don’t like wizards.” Fen turned his back on the man.

Avery grabbed his arm and spun him back. Even weak from days without food, water, or sleep, Fen broke the man’s grip with barely a tug and bared his teeth.

Avery paled but stood his ground. “I think we can help each other.”

“You won’t be much help to anyone a week from now.” Fen looked deliberately around the dark, cavernous dungeon and back at Avery. He and his friend had not been starving enough to eat the slop in the pails, but it would not be long until they were as weak and lethargic as the others.

Lestrange snorted.

Avery smiled knowingly. “We won’t be here that long. Our friend wouldn’t let his knights rot in this hellhole.”

Fen was tired. He chugged back the liquid from the pail in his hands, wiped his mouth with the back of his thick forearm, and scouted the floor for the least soiled spot. He eyed up a fellow prisoner with clothing not too stained or torn that might come close to fitting him.

“We’ll be out of here before your next change,” Avery said confidently. “If you get lucky enough to leave this place sane, ask at The White Wyvern for the Knights of Walpurgis. I’ll put in a word for you.”

Fen ignored the man. By the time he seized a couple of items of clothing he had barely strength enough to curl up on the cold floor before the air frosted. The prisoners all began to shiver and whimper. Some cried. Even Avery and Lestrange cowered on the floor, arms over their heads as the temperature lowered further. Fen clapped his hands over his ears to block out his sister’s screams and his mother’s rejection. From the corner of his eye, he saw a black shape float past the iron bars trailing misery like smoke.

The black shapes floated past three more times before any more food was delivered. Avery and Lestrange were thirsty and hungry enough to shoulder aside weaker prisoners for some of the food. Fen was unsurprised but slightly disappointed; he had nearly hoped these men had a way out of this place. He had hoped there _was_ a way out alive. For all his strength, he was not certain he could endure three years of alternating despair and starvation.

When the two wizards were escorted from the cell two days later, shaking and ill, Fen watched them go, a flicker of hope alight in his chest. Avery lifted his head and met Fen’s gaze before he and Lestrange stumbled out leaning on each other.

 _The Knights of Walpurgis_ , Fen repeated to himself. The owner of The White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley had occasionally hired him to convince a patron or two that paying their bar tab was more to their benefit than paying rent that month. He knew where it was and who to ask about the Knights. All he had to do was survive the next three years.

~

* * *

Fen stood in the rain under clouds so thick they seemed to touch the peak of the stone castle’s highest wall while wind ripped at his tattered clothing. The smell of the sea hung as heavy as fog around the island. Had the guards who escorted Fen outside spoken, it would have been impossible to hear them over the windstorm and thrashing waves.

He lifted his face and closed his eyes against the icy rain. It was not as cold as the crippling atmosphere inside the stone prison he had just left. He breathed deeply, drawing in lungfuls of air as if he had not taken a full breath in years. His stolen clothes were already pasted wetly to his skin, his hair long and yanked by the wind, and he revelled in the sensations.

There was a sharp jab in his back meant to send him stumbling forward. Fen stood unmoving, and swivelled his head to give the guard a toothy grin. The wizard shrank back and settled for pointing forward, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting in an attempt to be heard above nature’s fury. Though he could not make out the guard’s words, Fen understood his gesture. He strode forward and grasped an iron ring just before the portkey activated.

Fen landed with a lurch, his stomach protesting as his feet nearly gave out before he caught himself. He straightened and looked around, wondering if the Ministry had bothered to notify anyone of his release. Before he had time to do much other than identify the cobblestone street, a warm body crashed into him and a pair of thin arms wrapped around his neck. He embraced Muriel in return, dropping his chin to the top of her head and breathing deeply of her scent. She was shaking, or he was. He leaned back enough to cup her face in his hands, sighing at the feel of her silky black hair.

His own was tangled in dirty snarls. “I need a bath.”

She smacked him on the arm. She was crying and laughing at the same time. “Those are your first words to me in three years?”

She was so beautiful. “I’m too dirty to touch you.”

Muriel reached up to frame his face in her rough, sweet-smelling hands. “We definitely have to fix that.” Her eyes clouded as she trailed her fingers over his hollow cheeks and down his throat. “And feed you. Al and Pippin made a score last week and we stocked up on meat. We’ll have a feast.”

His mouth watered thinking about food that was not rotten eaten at a table with friends. Then to sleep in a bed, with Muriel beside him. He blinked at the wetness blurring his vision.

Without speaking, he pulled her close again and nodded.

~

 

The sign for The White Wyvern swayed in the evening breeze. Fen started up the wooden stairs, cloak pulled tight against the winter chill.

Inside the pub, the air was smoky but warm. Most of the patrons were seated in chairs and tables close to the bright fireplace but one small group was huddled in a dark corner furthest from the fire.

The heavy-set woman behind the bar watched Fen closely as he pushed the door closed behind him. He recognized her from the days she had hired him to collect debts from her patrons. She appeared to recognize him as well because she went back to filling mugs with ale.

A barmaid gave Fen an appraising glance and a wink before she gathered up three overflowing mugs in each hand and sashayed towards the rowdy group around the fireplace, exchanging jests with them as she delivered ale and collected coins.

Fen leaned against the bar, watching the proprietor as she rinsed empty mugs in a dishpan and gave them a single quick swipe with a cloth tied around her thick waist. The smell of spilled ale rose from the bar and the floor around it. It made Fen thirsty but he did not have money enough to purchase a drink.

“No work tonight,” the bartender said without pausing in her work. “Come back next week.”

“A’right,” Fen said.

When he made no move to leave, the woman stopped and met his gaze. “Anythin’ else I can ’elp you with? Don’t look like yer ’ere to buy.”

He shook his head. “Lookin’ for someone.”

He glanced around the room. The group near the fireplace was still laughing and talking loudly with the barmaid who flirted back and laughed with them. In the opposite corner, two men at a table lit only by a single candle leaned closer to each other and spoke in hushed tones.

Fen lowered his voice. “Lookin’ for the Knights.”

“Don’t know any such.” The bartender picked up a dirty mug and dumped it in her pail of dirty water.

“Avery,” Fen said. “Lestrange.”

She met his gaze. Her eyes flickered to the right and he turned his head towards the two men whose faces were mostly shadow above the single candle. Both wore dark clothing that blended with the blackness around them. She went back to washing.

Fen approached the table slowly. One of the men looked up and Fen saw his hand slip into his pocket. In answer, Fen held his hands at his sides, palms turned outward as he stepped closer to show he was not reaching for a wand.

“Relax, Mulciber.” The other man gestured at his companion, who stilled but kept his hand in his pocket.

“Made it, did you?” Avery leaned back in his chair, watching Fen with a slightly amused expression on his square-jawed face. He propped one black boot on the table leg and rocked back in his chair. “Must have been hell, stuck in there all this time.”

Fen clenched his fists at his side but ignored the man’s smug tone. “Yes.” He grinned, showing his teeth. Too bad they were ordinary human teeth and not the sharp points he had during the change. Perhaps he could file them. He leaned closer to Avery, relishing the man’s flinch.

Avery’s eyes darted to the door as if he could check the moon’s position through the solid wood.

“Three years I survived in there. Good thing there was plenty of raw meat.”

Even in the dim light, Fen could see the blood drain from Avery’s face and he smiled wider.

Avery narrowed his gaze, thin lips pressed in a tight line. “Now you’re here. Something you need from us?” He smirked again but it was not quite as smug.

Fen paused. He knew what he wanted from them, how much they might demand in return for helping him deliver justice was the question. “Lyall Lupin.”

The two exchanged a glance. “Who?” Avery asked.

“Works in Regulation & Control, Beast Division,” Fen snarled. Wizards were so bloody arrogant, as if they had the right to determine being from beast, human from animal.

“I know him,” the other man said. “Pureblood. Considers himself an expert on Dark creatures. Ministry hired him to keep the nasty things in check.” Mulciber gave Fen a look of contempt. “Married a muggle, had a half-blood brat a few years ago.”

Fen’s pulse sped up. “He has a child?”

Mulciber shrugged. “So I heard. Boy, I think.”

A child. That would be a sweet revenge. “You tell me where Lupin’s son is, and I’ll … help you in return.”

Avery’s thin lips turned up in a condescending smile. “What can you do to help us?”

Mulciber rolled his eyes as he looked Fen up and down.

Fen stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and casually rocked back on his heels, though his fists were clenched tight. “I can lift and carry if you got stuff you need moved.” Your goods or someone else’s went unspoken. “I can convince someone to pay up if you gentlemen got debts to collect.”

Avery raised his brow. He exchanged a significant look with Mulciber. “We may know someone who has certain debts to collect. How good are you with Dark Magic?”

“Never learned.” Fen’s hands clenched tighter inside his pockets. These two well-dressed thugs almost certainly had a Hogwarts education.

“You can’t expect much from his kind, Avery. Too stupid to learn, most of them.” Mulciber turned away from Fen.

His companion waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. Leave the wandwork to proper wizards, our friend may still accept your services.”

A growl rumbled in the back of Fen’s throat but he choked it down.

Avery leaned forward, his square face set in tense lines. “He’ll need to meet you first.” His gaze flicked to Mulciber, who shrugged, and back to Fen. “If he gives the go-ahead, we’ll be in touch with you here.”

“How do I know you’ll track down Lupin’s brat?” If they meant to get labour out of him and then back out of the deal, they had another think coming.

“That won’t be a problem,” Avery said indifferently.

~

* * *

Fen stopped at The White Wyvern every evening for the next two weeks. After the first few inquiries with no message from the Knights, the proprietor would wave him impatiently back out the door the moment he opened it.

Then came three days of the full moon and he dutifully reported to the Ministry for containment since he was an ex-convict and no longer left to restrain himself like other adult werewolves. He chafed against the confinement more than ever before. At least the wooden cell, small as it was and tucked deep underground below the Ministry offices, was larger and warmer than Azkaban.

When he was released on the third morning, Fen rushed straight to the Wyvern’s wooden steps and pounded on the closed door. He had to knock for seven minutes before the door was yanked inward by the proprietor wearing a thick cloak thrown over a flannel nightdress, her feet bare.

“What the bloody hell?” she snapped. She frowned when she recognized him. “You. They said t’ meet them ’ere tomorrow evening.” She slammed the door again and he heard the bolt clang into place.

~

* * *

Fen waited outside the door of The White Wyvern that evening, hands tucked under his armpits and stamping his feet to keep warm. Finally, he heard the bolt slide back. Immediately, he pushed the door inward and stepped inside. The proprietor, barely a step away from the threshold, shook her head at him and went on with her work.

Fen took a seat in the dark corner furthest from the fireplace, though a bit of warmth and firelight reached him to coax blood back into his fingertips and toes. He waited, hunched on a chair with his cloak still wrapped around him, eyes on the door.

He got partially to his feet when the door opened and swirl of moist air fogged the room, but it was only the barmaid arriving for work. He dropped back into his seat. She raised an eyebrow in his direction, but he ignored her and she shrugged, hung up her cloak, and began sweeping the floor. He started up again the next time the door swung inwards but it was a group of wizards in high spirits who settled themselves in front of the fire and waved over the barmaid.

A few others came in and one or two of the earlier arrivals had left by the time three men in black cloaks and black boots came through the door. The tallest of the three had jet black hair and a face that would have been handsome except for his waxy skin and blood-shot eyes. He moved with a grace that made it seem as if he floated rather than walked, his elegant black robes rippling around him.

He was slightly built, nearly frail-looking between his heavyset companions, yet Fen felt a shiver climb up his spine at the attention of this tall, thin wizard. Fen watched them as they neared, unable to look away from the red-rimmed black eyes that had fastened on him, and realized his hands were shaking even though the wizard was shorter than Fen and many stones lighter. He curled his fingers into fists to hide their trembling as he jumped to his feet.

The tall man came to a stop in front of him, eyed him up and down, and then waved a hand. Immediately, one of his companions pulled out a chair and held it for the black-haired wizard to sit. Avery and the other thickly-built wizard waited for their slim leader to motion to the other chairs before seating themselves to either side of him. Fen remained standing.

“This is the werewolf, my lord,” Avery said.

At any other time if someone labelled him a creature rather than using his name, Fen would have left no doubt that such rudeness would not be tolerated, but he said nothing.

The lord – or whatever he was – steepled his hands and rested his elbows on the table, his blood-shot eyes fixed on Fen. “You wish to be of service to me?”

Dread crawled up Fen’s spine and his breath shortened. He wanted to assert his demand for information on Lupin before offering anything in return, but the words stuck in his throat. “Yes.”

The black eyes narrowed.

“My lord,” Fen added quickly.

“Have you killed before?”

Fen’s heart pounded, certain this wizard with the eerily sharp gaze could see his misgivings about having anything to do with him or his minions. “No.”

Dark brows raised in the unnaturally sallow face. “A werewolf that has not killed? But surely you’ve been convicted of attacking wizards, or at least muggles, to have been sentenced to Azkaban?” The voice was melodic with an odd sibilance.

Fen swallowed hard. “I was accused of attacking my sister, but I … I only meant to protect her.”

Avery and the other knight, if that is what they were, exchanged a snort of disbelief. Their lord raised a hand and both fell silent.

“I understood you were seeking information on Lyall Lupin. Surely it was not to protect him?” The tall wizard’s long, slim fingers tapped against each other.

From the corner of his eye, Fen saw Avery conceal a snicker. Fen stood straighter, his voice firm. “No. He’s the one who took me from my family and sent me to prison without a fair hearing. I intend to show him the same justice.”

The blood-shot eyes brightened. Fen refrained from shivering.

“You were interested in the child, I believe?”

“Yes.” Then there would be one more of his people, and one less wizard.

“You have no love for wizards.”

The blood from his pounding heart froze. It felt as if the dark-haired lord were looking into his mind. Was there a spell for that?

“You wish that werewolves outnumbered wizards so they would no longer control you and your kind.”

Fen found it difficult to breathe. He was afraid of this pale, skinny wizard with the unnatural eyes. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more to do with him. Just as he was about to strike out, or run, the wizard laughed. The sound was even more unnerving that his hissing voice.

“Perhaps you will be of service after all. I can arrange for you to cross paths with a number of children of those who object to my efforts at bringing reform to our society.” One slim hand gestured at Avery.

Immediately, the heavyset wizard produced a scrap of parchment which he handed to Fen. Fen pulled his hand from his pocket, still clenched to hide its trembling, and grasped the parchment. It was an address.

“Pay your visit to the Lupin family,” the Dark Lord said. “Then report back to Avery. He will furnish you with other addresses. If you run into any – opposition – in carrying out your visits, I will know and my knights will take care of it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Fen crushed the parchment in his hand, excitement as much as fear now causing his heart to pound and his fingers to shake. “Thank you, my lord.” The title came easier to his tongue this time.

One bony hand fluttered as the lord turned to his companions, his back to Fen. Recognizing the dismissal, Fen took two steps backward, then spun around and walked quickly to the door. As he left, the three in black cloaks huddled around the dark table in earnest discussion. Fen left them to it.

~

 

“No!” Muriel picked up an empty goblet from the board they were using as a table and threw it across the room.

Pippin ducked and the goblet clanged against the wall and then again on the floor.

“Lupin deserves a taste of the misery he dishes out.” Fen banged a fist on the board and the remaining goblets jumped.

Alice snatched up her drink before it spilled.

“You just got out,” Muriel begged. “You can’t threaten anyone else.”

Fen frowned. “I never threatened Nellie. That was Lupin’s lie.”

He had sent Alfred and Pippin to the farm, but it was no longer inhabited. When they asked the family’s whereabouts, they got suspicious glares and left without learning what had become of Fen’s mother, sister, and brother.

“Three years.” Fen grabbed the hair at his temples with both fists, trying to numb the memories. “Three years I was in that pit.” He shivered as if the room had suddenly grown icy cold, remembered the empty eye sockets under dark hoods and non-existent mouths open in perpetual screams: his sister’s frightened cries and his mother’s mournful wails. “I had one purpose and I survived to see it fulfilled: Lupin will pay.”

Muriel blinked. “Three years, my only thought was to see you again.”

The freezing sensation that had crawled up his spine stopped at his heart. He looked into her wide brown eyes staring back at him, hurt pooling in the moisture gathered there. He opened his mouth, but his feelings tangled in his throat and no words came. He shut his mouth again.

He tried to remember the first time they kissed or the first time they touched, but icy blackness hid the memories. He tried to remember the day his mother had taken him shopping for school supplies, his sister skipping beside them chattering about being old enough for her own school shopping. All he could recall were frightened eyes and pleading. And screaming. Had all his happy memories been sucked away by that place?

He remembered Lyall Lupin, though. He remembered the man’s pinched face spitting out words, calling him a soulless, evil creature deserving of nothing but death, before Fen was dragged away to that dungeon where prisoners lay whimpering until hunger or cold or despair stilled their voices permanently. Many of his fellow inmates had been carried out, bodies as cold as the skeletal hands of their guards. He had survived.

“Lupin put me in that prison. No one even questioned me or asked why I went …,” not _home_ , “… to the farm that day. They never let me speak.”

Muriel looked away. “It won’t have mattered. There’s too many of them and they have all the power.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Fen shoved the table aside and gripped her upper arms. “There has to be more of us. We have to work together, protect each other, like you and Alfred, like all of us.”

Her brow furrowed. “You can’t deliberately put a child through that. It was horrible.”

“It’s the only way to fight back. If there are enough of us, united against the wizards, we can have a real life again.”

Alice leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “He’s right. Why would you care what happens to some wizard’s children? They’ve done worse to us.”

Muriel’s gaze darted between Alice and Fen, then she looked toward Alfred who was hunched on his own chair. He shrugged.

“If you get caught …” Muriel’s voice trailed off.

Fen smiled. “I’ll have friends to help me.”

“We can’t help against them.”

“Not you.”

Muriel gave him a puzzled look.

“You’ll see.”

~

 

Full moon 12 August, 1965

Fen leaned against the scratchy bark of the budding tree and looked up at the second floor window of the green house he had been studying for four weeks. The sun was setting, and the window was lit from within by candlelight. On the lower level, the kitchen was dark. Nearby, two cats hissed a challenge before one chased the other away in a blur of fur and claws. Otherwise, the evening was quiet.

The ground was drier than usual beneath his hobnailed boots as he stood in the evening twilight, watching the light in the upstairs back window. A shadow passed between the candle and the pane, then the room went dark. Fen remained staring up at the green house, eyes fixed on the dark window.

After a long moment, Fen pushed away from the tree and approached the house. No one was in the back garden and there was no sign of movement in the kitchen or the bedroom above it. A rear entry with gabled roof extended from the kitchen. As he had planned, it was simple enough to climb barefoot onto the tiny roof to reach the bedroom casement.

Balanced on the gable with his bare toes dug into the rough concrete tiles, Fen tugged, but the window was shut tight. Pulling his wand from his back pocket, he used the unlocking spell Muriel had taught him which had been refined and improved over their years of burglary. There was a brief red glow, then the window raised slightly. Fen slipped his hands into the opening and quietly eased it higher in its frame until he could squeeze his thick body inside.

The room smelled of lilacs and lemon. The floor beneath his bare feet was carpeted. He could make out a bed with a single small occupant lying quietly under a heavy quilt, head cushioned between two thick pillows. Downstairs, soft voices were interspersed with the sounds of a muggle telly. Fen aimed his wand at the bedroom door and uttered a series of complicated locking spells.

Outside, the sun set and the full moon took over the darkened sky. Fen folded over in agony, his body twisting and stretching as fiery needles pierced every joint. He fell to the floor, writhing and unable to contain his cries of pain.

He was aware of loud noises in the hallway, banging and shouts that hurt his sensitive ears. He smelled humans out there, but closer was another human scent. Stretching up to his full height, the pointed tips of his ears brushed the bedroom ceiling. Below him was a little boy, sitting up among blankets and pillows, mouth open in a terrified scream. Fen filled his lungs with the delicious scent, then lifted his muzzle towards the moon and gave a long, exuberant howl. His eyes fastened on the sweet-smelling child, warm with sweat and sleep. He pounced.

His jaws sunk into soft flesh, but he had only a moment to savour the taste before agony ripped through his right flank. He slashed out with front claws, trying to dislodge the source of his hurt. Growling, he turned to the figures in the doorway pointing wooden sticks. He took one step in that direction and then more pain hit him between his eyes. Yelping, he fell back, claws flailing.

There was another stab in his left ear and then his left flank. He turned and leapt toward the night breeze beyond the window casement, claws scrabbling for purchase on the small, slanted roof outside. Yelping with pain, he slid from the concrete tiles to land on his side on the grass. Before he could regain his footing, several more jolts stabbed into him.

~

 

Fen awoke on familiar bare stone, frost edging the floor along one wall. Triumph warred with fear in his mind: he remembered biting Lupin’s boy but he was now back in a prison cell and Lupin’s vengeance in return would be fierce.

The wooden door scraped against the stone as it opened. Fen raised his head and watched two human guards enter the cell. One gestured at Fen and pointed down the hallway. Were they moving him to the pit already? He had lost track of the days.

He followed the guards down a corridor, turning when they told him to. They came to a heavily-barred door as thick as his arm. Fen’s heart pounded as one of the guards unlocked the complicated series of spells, pushed it open, and gestured Fen to go through. Wet, salty air slapped his face. He breathed a deep lungful as he stumbled through the doorway, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky.

He heard a contemptuous chuckle. Fen saw a wizard in black cloak and black boots waiting.

Avery raised a brow. “Our Dark Lord keeps his bargains.” He handed Fenrir a piece of parchment with an address on it.

The werewolf nodded in return. He would gladly repay them for helping him see justice done, and this partnership would give him the opportunity to finally turn the tables on wizard society. Let this Dark Lord and his Knights build their new world; soon, there would be so many werewolves that no one could abuse them.


End file.
